


And I Find You All Unwoven

by Jassy



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-21
Updated: 2021-02-15
Packaged: 2021-03-09 04:22:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 30,516
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27127837
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jassy/pseuds/Jassy
Summary: Chance brings Jaskier back into Geralt's life, no matter how hard the pair of them have been trying to avoid each other. Jaskier isn't thrilled with this: after all, who wants to travel with the person whose life they ruined and have their fuck ups shoved in their face over and over again? But it's not safe out there on his own so he'll have to suck it up. at least for the winter.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 84
Kudos: 407





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So...another angst fest here. But hopefully it won't take the boys as long to heal in this one!

Jaskier had been called a lot of things in his life, both good and bad. But the one thing he had not been called, by anyone really, was friend. No matter how hard he tried, there was something about him that made people not want to keep him around. He thought he’d had something with Geralt, something _real_. Geralt had been the only one that had never told him to get lost, had never chased him off with harsh words. Sure, the man had never said they were friends, had never even once said he liked a single song or anything like that, but….he put up with him. Would share food and fire on the road, split inn costs with him, even helped get him out of trouble when he wasn’t as cautious about his bed partners as he should have been. And Jaskier had made more of that than was actually there, clearly.

Hurt and humiliated and ashamed after the mountain, Jaskier did everything he could to make sure he avoided anywhere Geralt might be. Rumors of a monster sent him in the opposite direction. Rumors of a certain purple-eyed witch sent him running even faster. He kept his head down, played enough for his own upkeep, and kept on the move.

He was better off alone – of course he was! No monster guts or ichor or drool. No bloody wounds to patch up, nothing trying to eat him. So what if it was boring and lonely? So what if he had the perpetual feeling of vague shame, like a puppy that’s pissed on the carpet but knows better? It was all _fine_ , and he was sure Geralt at least was much happier now – everyone was always much happier when Jaskier was gone, or so he’d always been told. And he could at least carry on knowing he wasn’t fucking up anyone’s life anymore, even if he hadn’t known for twenty odd years that he was fucking up Geralt’s – he knew now, and it was better, obviously, that he wasn’t doing it anymore. He hadn’t gotten friendship right, but absence was pretty hard to fuck up, even for him. It was just staying away, after all.

It all worked perfectly well for months. And then the war came, and Cintra fell, and it was a constant war with himself to not go looking. Because he knew Geralt, and as much as the man might deny it – Geralt felt responsible for his Child Surprise, _protective_ , and he knew Geralt would have headed right for Cintra at the first hints of Nilfgaard on the move.

It became all but impossible to avoid hearing about the war, as refugees flooded the rest of the countries around Cintra. He heard about the defeat of Nilfgaard at Sodden. He heard about the Lion Cub of Cintra being in the wind. He heard of Calanthe’s death, and he heard that Nilfgaard was looking for the girl and a witcher. Odd as it seemed, he found those rumors reassuring. Because if they were still looking, as long as people still whispered fearfully and hoarded hints of the witcher’s whereabouts in case they needed to bargain for their lives, that meant that Nilfgaard didn’t have them, either one.

So he kept his head down and kept moving, changed his name and what he played so no one would link him to Geralt. The last thing he needed was Nilfgaard looking for _him_ as a link to Geralt, because as furious as it would make him, Geralt _would_ come for him if he were captured. It was all working just fine, until he went a little too far south, and Nilfgaard started sending smaller forces further north in their search efforts, and he accidentally stumbled on the lost princess in the woods.

He shouldn’t have even been traveling at night as he was. He didn’t, usually, but he’d heard a squad of soldiers were in the area near the village he was in, and he’d felt it best to slip out of town at night and head north rather than wait until daylight, just in case they knew what he looked like. He was linked to Geralt, after all, and even to the princess in a way, as he’d been there for her parents’ wedding. No more taking chances, that was his thing these days. And then he’d heard muffled sobbing, and he’d done that himself too many times in his life, and it fucking hurt to cry alone when you were hurting and scared and no one gave the slightest damn, and without thinking he’d headed towards the sound rather than away, and then he’d seen the horse and then the girl with her white blond hair so like her mother’s, and… “Fuck.”

Princess Cirilla’s head snapped up from where she’d had it pressed into Roach’s neck, eyes wild for all they were still leaking tears and blood shot. She pulled a knife with commendable swiftness but little skill just yet, and Jaskier held his hands out to the side to show they were empty of weapons or threat. “I won’t hurt you,” he promised. “I know that horse. Where is Geralt? Is he meeting you here?”

“You know him? Who are you?” she demanded.

“I’m a bard. I used to go by Jaskier. I played at your parents’ wedding, so I’ve been using a different name lately. Please, where is Geralt? This area isn’t safe, I’ve heard there’s a squad of Nilfgaard’s soldiers in the area. You can’t stay here.”

“Jaskier? He told me about you.” She sniffed and scrubbed at her eyes, and then her face crumpled again. “He’s – he’s _gone_ , I don’t know where, I think they have him! They found us, and he threw me on Roach and made me go, said he would find me, but that was more than a day ago and he’s still not – I don’t know what to _do_.”

Jaskier went cold and strangely calm. If it had been that long, then Geralt was either hurt or captured – probably both. Jaskier couldn’t turn his back on either of them, especially the girl. Geralt could probably get himself out of whatever mess he was in, but Ciri didn’t have time to wait. He walked closer, absently greeting Roach when she snuffled against him. “It’s okay. It will **be** okay. Here.” He set down his pack and pulled out his map – he didn’t quite have the head for navigation that Geralt did, and without him had always relied on maps to help keep himself from getting hopelessly turned around. “Where were you when they found you, do you know?” Ciri pointed at a spot just a bit south of the village that he’d come from, confirming his suspicions that the squad he’d heard about were the likely culprits. “Alright. I’ll find them. I’ll see if they have him, and if they do, I’ll try to get him out.” He pointed at a village a couple days’ to the north. “I want you to head for here. _Don’t_ go into the village. Find somewhere to hide. Have you food?”

“I – yes, some.” Jaskier checked the saddlebags, dissatisfied with the hard trail rations he found. He transferred some of his own food over, bread and cheese and dried meat, enough for a few days at least. He tied his lute back into its place on Roach, then swiftly changed into his grubbiest shirt. It was, in fact, a very old one of Geralt’s, often mended, and looked terrible. Nilfgaard was not shy about picking up strays to ship home as slaves, so if he looked ragged to begin with, he would just be another unfortunate to fill their cages. His boots were of a finer make than he would have liked, but they were also well caked with road muck since he hadn’t been concerned with avoiding it, just with getting away from the area at speed. But they also came with clever little hidden pockets that hopefully no one would notice if he were caught. He found Geralt’s potions and added a couple of them to the things he would take with, and threw his nice warm coat around the girl’s shoulders. She had a cloak, but slight as she was, the autumn chill would still be hard on her.

“Alright. You go there and wait. Stay hidden. Geralt will absolutely be able to find you if you’re near there. If he doesn’t find you in three days’ time, I want you to go to Oxenfurt. Go to the academy, and find a woman there named Shani. She’s a medic there. You will tell her that you’re my daughter by an illicit affair, and since I am friends with Geralt, Nilfgaard is looking for me and that you were in danger of being caught and used as a hostage against me.” He smiled rather ruefully. “I had quite the misspent youth, she’ll easily believe that I had a love child. You’re close enough in age to apprentice, so I imagine she’ll take you on in that role. It won’t raise any eyebrows. Just make sure to tell her to keep your relationship to me a secret, both for your safety from Nilfgaard and my family – I haven’t spoken to them in years, she knows that. They might well take you in, but they would not treat you well. Okay? Can you remember that? Geralt _must_ know where to find you if getting him up and free takes too long.”

“What if – what if he’s dead?” she whispered.

“He’s not,” Jaskier said instantly. “I’m certain of it. I have known him for a long time. It won’t be mere soldiers that take down the White Wolf – not for good. He’s captured or injured or both, but not dead.”

“But what if he _is_.”

Jaskier hesitated. To speak of the possibility seemed unwise, like tempting fate, but she needed reassurance. And as much as he hated to think of it, planning for the worst was probably a good idea. “Then – then I need to know where to find you, should I find him dead. We will winter in Oxenfurt, and then head for Kaedwen. That’s where Kaer Morhen is. I can’t find the keep itself, but if we leave before spring and can get to roughly where the trail _starts_ , I’m sure we’ll find another witcher. They will take you in and keep you safe and hidden, I’m sure of it. Okay?” He squeezed her hands where they were clenched in his coat. “One way or another, it will be okay. We can do this. **We can.** You just need to hide for a little while until Geralt can get back to you.”

She nodded reluctantly. After a little more encouragement, and repeating the plans one more time, she finally started on her way to hide near the village. Jaskier turned back the way he’d come. The entire time he tromped through the woods, he had a constant litany of ‘fuck fuck what the fuck am I doing oh fuck this is going to end so badly **fuck** ’.

He skirted around the village he’d so hastily left just a few hours before and headed in the direction that the soldiers were rumored to have been seen. Right where Ciri said they’d been ambushed. Fate or luck or the gods were on his side, because he found them still there. His misspent youth meant he was actually fairly good at sneaking, when he put his mind to it, and his dark shirt and trousers helped him blend in with the mud-drab surroundings so he could creep up on them unseen. There were horses aplenty, stomping and whickering and making general horse noises. Fewer soldiers than he would have expected – fewer soldiers than there were horses, actually. He shifted to see better, and noted a large, caged cart. There were three slumped bodies in it, one with a shock of white hair. He couldn’t see the face, but the broad, scarred back certainly didn’t belong to an old man. The blood that streaked it was a concern, though.

There were also _bodies_ , which explained the disparity between horses and soldiers. Geralt had not gone down without a fight and looked to have taken out a good half their number before they got him.

The problem, of course, was that Geralt was in the center of the encampment, with still too many soldiers between Jaskier and him. Jaskier was a good sneak, but he was no fighter. The only way he was going to get to Geralt was if the soldiers put him in there. Try as he might, Jaskier could not think of another way. At least one of the potions that he’d brought for the witcher was quite poisonous for humans, but even their stew pots were too far from the trees he hid in for him to even attempt to poison them. If he tried to make a distraction to draw some of them away, there was no guarantee that enough would follow him to make a difference, if he could even manage to lose them in the forest and circle back around.

There was no help for it, no other way, and his cuss laden litany started up again as he slipped away and circled around to approach the camp from the south. He took some time to make sure he was good and filthy, then gave up stealth to stumble along, trying his best to appear to be a half starved vagabond.

It didn’t take long for scouts to find him, and he didn’t have to do much acting when they levelled crossbows at him to appear afraid. He mumbled and begged as he was dragged into the camp, where the current leader apparently decided he was in fair enough shape to be put to work in the mines or fields back home, and he was tossed into the cage with Geralt and the other two people. Literally tossed, and his arm did not thank him for the treatment when he landed on it. He cowered against the bars away from the soldiers, who laughed cruelly and locked the cage behind him. The other two prisoners stared at him with hopeless, dead eyes, and then turned their backs to him.

Still feigning terror (partly feigning, just a smidge feigning) he huddled up near Geralt. The witcher was out cold and had more than one wound still bleeding sluggishly. He slid the potions out of his boot and found the one that he knew Geralt used to stop bleeding and speed healing. A dribble at a time, he managed to get the stuff into Geralt’s mouth. He couldn’t see any signs that any poison had been used, which was good. That would take Geralt longer to come back from. It would appear to be just straight up blood loss from too many sword and/or knife wounds, and what looked to be one great whack on the head. With the most critical potion down the witcher’s throat, Jaskier turned his attention to the rest of Geralt. Unlike himself and the other two would-be slaves, Geralt had been chained. While the chains and manacles were thick, the locks on them didn’t appear terribly fancy. It had been a while, but Jaskier was sure he could pick them when the time came.

Then he just sat and waited, keeping an eye on the movements of the soldiers. They were quite obviously searching for something – or someone, and it didn’t take a genius to figure out who. Based on how long the patrols were gone, he could guess that they were searching the area thoroughly, in ever widening circles, and had already reported back that the village was all but deserted. Jaskier was breathlessly grateful that he’d convinced the princess to move further north to wait, and gut churningly worried that he’d told her to hide there for too long. But they were intent on capture, not death, which gave him a sliver of hope. Even if it took Geralt too long to wake up and the girl was captured, he was certain that he would wake up and be able to get them both out if she was brought back.

The day still felt too long to him. Geralt’s wounds closed, and Jaskier just left the blood to dry there, hoping it would disguise the fact that he’d healed. Not that he was examined closely. Every couple of hours a soldier would walk by, check that Geralt was breathing, and then move on. No effort at tending him at all.

At dusk, a soldier brought by rough metal bowls filled with what could, if one were exceedingly generous, call porridge, but was actually quite watered down gruel. The other two prisoners drank their portions down greedily. Jaskier wasn’t there quite yet and just set his to the side.

With the sun down, what little warmth it had brought vanished. The other prisoners huddled together for warmth, so Jaskier didn’t think it would be too odd if he did the same, and carefully curled as best he could around the witcher. Even in just trousers and completely unconscious, the man radiated heat, so he wasn’t actually too chilled. And it worked for the best, because he could feel it when the man tensed, awareness returning to him all at once. “Shh, Geralt,” he hissed, far too low for human hearing, but plenty enough for enhanced witcher senses. “It’s me. You must stay quiet, alright?” He shifted just a little, one wary eye on the nearby guard. But it let him see Geralt’s face, and the odd glow of his eyes as they cracked open. Very slightly, Geralt nodded at him. Jaskier dropped his voice even further and got his lips as close to the witcher’s ear as he could without alerting anyone to his movements. “Roach and her rider are still safe,” he breathed. Even so quiet, he didn’t want to say anything about the girl. “Hiding near a village called Hayden to the north. In another two days, if you don’t find her, Roach will go to Oxenfurt, to a healer there that I know at the academy. I can pick your locks, and I’ve brought some of your potions. I’ve seen about thirty soldiers, but some are still out searching. They go in pairs and come back to switch out about every four hours or so. I’ve only a stiletto, but the horses are picketed pretty close. If we can get out of the cage, you should be able to get one fairly easily. Tell me what you want me to do. Distraction?”

Very slightly, Geralt shook his head. He turned so that the firelight fell on his face and mouthed, “What potions?” Jaskier slid a hand into his boot and withdrew the other little vials. He knew the healing ones, but wasn’t entirely sure what all of them did, just that Geralt would take them for the more difficult monsters. He’d hoped they would help. Judging by the way Geralt grinned, just briefly, he had guessed right with at least one of them. “Locks,” Geralt mouthed, pointedly moving his hands against Jaskier’s back. Jaskier palmed his lockpicks and shifted again. He didn’t want to move enough to completely turn around and hunch over, so he had to work by touch alone. He was a little out of practice, and the awkward angle didn’t help much. But the manacles being sandwiched between them helped to muffle the faint scraping noises, which was all to the good.

It took longer than he would have liked, but Geralt was uncharacteristically patient and just held still for him. When the locks finally clicked open, Jaskier almost fainted with relief. The locks on Geralt’s ankles would be harder to get at, with the way they were positioned, but perhaps if he pretended to have troubled sleep….

Geralt took the picks from him and curled down to get at his own ankles. Because of course he could pick locks, and much faster too, since within minutes he passed the picks back to him in favor of snatching up one of the potions. Jaskier hastily proffered the stiletto as he felt Geralt shudder under the effects of whatever he had just swallowed. “Get the door open,” Geralt growled, the loudest noise either of them had yet made.

Swallowing down fearful protest, Jaskier simply moved over to the door and began to work at it. The nearby guard noticed, of course, but incredibly didn’t raise the alarm. He just stomped over, appearing more impatient than alarmed, right up until he was at the bars and raising a fist to no doubt punch Jaskier quite hard. And then Geralt struck as fast as a snake, driving the slender blade into the underside of his jaw, probably all the way up into his brain since it went in all the way to the hilt. Jaskier was eye to eye with him as he died without much of a sound at all, certainly not enough sound to alert any of the other soldiers. And then he just hung there, impaled through the head, with Geralt not letting his body fall to make noise.

The other two prisoners were another matter, and gasped fearfully, but went dead silent when Geralt growled at them. “The lock, Jaskier,” he hissed. Swallowing bile, Jaskier doubled his efforts until the lock clicked open. Geralt shoved him to the side and slipped out, helping himself to the dead soldier’s weapons. When he straightened away from the body, Jaskier could see the inky black of his eyes, and the way the veins of his face had gone dark, as though all the blood in his body had turned black.

And then the carnage started. Jaskier had seen Geralt fight. He had even seen Geralt fight humans. But he had never seen Geralt do so with such a single-minded determination to kill everyone in his path. Part of him was sickened, not so much by the loss of life, but just for the simple fact of its necessity. Mostly he was relieved. The soldiers were unprepared for an attack from within their own camp, and with the potion enhancing Geralt’s already enhanced abilities, they didn’t stand a chance.

The whimpering of the other prisoners shook him out of the strange stupor he’d fallen into while watching. He slid out of the cage and beckoned to them, but they refused to leave, just staring fearfully at Geralt cutting his way through the soldiers. “He won’t hurt you,” Jaskier tried to assure them. A poorly timed scream of agony ensured they didn’t believe him. With a sigh, Jaskier just left them there. They would climb out when Geralt left, he was sure.

He started working his way through the tents that were set up, and helped himself to a sack of food that would certainly carry him for quite a ways without needing to stop in any towns or villages for a while, then grabbed a second sack for Geralt and Cirilla. He found a cloak that would keep him warm enough for the time being until he could get his own clothes back. He also found Geralt’s armor and weapons. The armor was badly damaged, but he was sure Geralt could repair it – it had certainly seen worse than swords over the years. Then he went to the picketed horses and started checking them over. He would never have a better chance at getting a horse for himself without guilt and chose a pair of the calmer ones. He didn’t know how well the princess could ride, but Geralt could make faster time with her if they were both mounted. The rest he removed the tack from and let loose.

By the time he was done, the sounds of slaughter had subsided. He carried Geralt’s things to him where he stood in the center of camp, fist still clenched around a blood drenched sword and chest rising and falling with faster than usual breaths. “Geralt, here. I found your things.” Geralt turned to face him. His eyes were still black, face still pale with stark black veins shot through it. Jaskier met his stare as calmly as he could. He knew Geralt wouldn’t harm him – not physically. But faced with the other man, he couldn’t help but doubt everything he’d done. Maybe he shouldn’t have had the princess go hide? Should he have taken her straight to Kaedwen to find another witcher? But he couldn’t have just left Geralt where he was. Then again, Geralt was a grown man, far more capable than Jaskier was, and he would have healed on his own sooner or later and gotten out.

Fuck, he really had fucked up, hadn’t he? He should have stayed with the princess until Geralt found her again. What the hell had he been thinking? He swallowed down bile and just set the armor and weapons on the ground in front of the witcher. “We should go,” he whispered, no longer quite able to look Geralt in the eye. “Roach is worried about you.”

Geralt said nothing and just dressed himself, letting the bloodied sword fall to the ground. When he was ready, he mounted one of the horses Jaskier had picked and waited until Jaskier pulled himself into the saddle of the other. Still without a word, he aimed them north towards the village Jaskier had told him about.

The entire ride was made in, for Jaskier at least, uncomfortable silence. He didn’t know if he should be grateful or not for Geralt’s silence. On the one hand, he rather wished Geralt would just get it over with and detail all the ways Jaskier had fucked up. On the other hand, he truly did not want to hear all the ways he had fucked up yet again. He had only wanted to help – that’s all he’d ever really wanted – and he didn’t need more harsh words that would haunt him for the rest of his life anyway.

Mounted, with Geralt leading the way, it took far less time to get near the village that Ciri was supposed to be hiding near than Jaskier had expected. That only added to his guilt – he’d thought the distance greater, but it clearly wasn’t, and the patrols the soldiers were sending out would surely have found her before the three days’ waiting would have passed. It was long enough that the potion’s effects had faded, though, and Geralt searched the area with his normal golden gaze and not a blackened vein in sight. Jaskier was total shit at tracking, so he couldn’t really judge how well the girl had hidden herself when Geralt was able to lead them more or less straight to her. She let out a relieved cry when she saw them and threw herself at Geralt before he was completely out of the saddle.

Jaskier left them to their reunion as he slid rather ungracefully to the ground and headed for Roach. She stomped a little when he neared, and he patted her nose in greeting. “Hello, lovely. He’s all safe and sound,” he promised her as he started gathering his pack and lute from her saddle. When he turned, a tiny blond barreled into his chest, almost making him drop his lute. He let the pack go instead so he could pat the girl on the back. “It’s okay, he’s fine. I told you he would be,” he said a little awkwardly.

“You saved him, oh thank you, you saved him!” she sobbed.

“That’s, ah, somewhat of a stretch. I possibly hastened his departure from his hosts by a little, that’s all.”

“I’m not used to such modesty, Jaskier,” Geralt observed.

Jaskier shrugged as he continued to pat the girl on the back. “I’ve let go of a lot of delusions these days. No point in picking up new ones. Please don’t cry, princess, I truly didn’t do that much. But look, we did liberate a horse for you – whichever of them you like! And there’s food enough so you can both avoid villages if you want to, make your travel much faster.” He urged her over towards the horses, both of them fairly unremarkable in the way of horses, but from his memory, children of her age were usually charmed by all animals.

Whether it was truly the animals or the girl picking up on his discomfort, he couldn’t say, but she did release him and scrub her face dry and go over to pat both horses. Jaskier backed away a little so she could choose. He tensed when Geralt approached him and looked at the ground. “If I couldn’t find you, or you were dead, we were only going to winter in Oxenfurt,” he blurted. “Once spring neared, I planned to take her to Kaedwen to try to find another witcher. I wasn’t fool enough to think **I** could keep her safe for more than a season.”

“It was…not a bad plan,” Geralt said, a little stiffly.

Jaskier shrugged. “Best I could think of. As soon as she picks a horse, I’ll be out of your hair. Unless you’ve a use for both beasts? I can walk, I’m used to it.”

“You should come with us – to Kaer Morhen. Nilfgaard is looking for you, too.”

“No, that’s okay!” Jaskier’s eyes flew to Geralt’s in shock. “I mean – I worried they might, I made myself such a nuisance to you over the years, people have linked us, so I’ve been using a different name, dressing a bit different. I don’t get a second look these days, you don’t have to trouble over me,” he assured him.

“It’s not a bother – Jaskier, be reasonable. I know it won’t be some – some decadent court somewhere, but it’s safe, and right now you’re very much in danger. The trail is almost impossible in winter, even for witchers. If they capture you, I’m not sure I’d be able to get to you in time.”

“They won’t _capture_ me, Geralt, there’s no reason for anyone to look twice at me. I wouldn’t expect you to come even if they did – you can’t leave her, I know that, I’m not entirely without sense. Just – good gods, can you imagine the pair of us shut up in some remote keep? I can’t see that ending well, Geralt.” Honestly, the man’s kindness was almost infuriating. Subjecting himself to Jaskier for an entire winter in some remote, snowed in keep? He’d be miserable and on edge, when he should be focusing on his Child Surprise. Jasker would be nothing but grit in his boot.

Geralt’s jaw clenched, clearly already annoyed. “They have mages,” he gritted out. “They need only find someone that knows your face and they’ll be able to pluck the image from their mind. It isn’t safe for you. They’ll find you – not all their forces are so obvious as an entire squad of soldiers.”

“He’s right,” the princess piped up unexpectedly. “They can do things – it isn’t safe. They – they got me with a doppler, and I didn’t even realize at first. You have to come with us.” She tried a tremulous smile on him. “Besides, I bet no one else there knows how to play the lute – it would be a long winter with no music!”

Gods, what was he supposed to say to that? He tried to think of something, some tactful way to tell her that his music would not be welcome, much less the rest of himself. Geralt was doing this out of kindness and duty, and maybe it was the lesser evil for him so that he wouldn’t feel obligated to rescue him should Jaskier manage to get himself caught. But the princess…she was frightened, her life had been ripped apart, and it was clear that she was clinging onto whoever was kind to her. He pinched the bridge of his nose as a headache began behind his eyes. He was already doomed and he knew it. He had to try anyway. “I doubt they’re terribly far north just yet. I’ve had good luck in the north, it won’t be a bother to spend a few years up there until they forget about me. I’ll be fine – you really, truly, do not need to feel responsible for me.”

“Please, Jasker, we’ll only worry about you if you don’t come,” the girl pleaded. Geralt was stoic beside her, but nodded his agreement with her words.

“….fuck. Fine. I’ll come, but just for the one winter,” he warned.

“We should get moving,” Geralt announced as the princess hugged him gleefully.

“Fine,” Jaskier repeated, patting her back. He gave her a little push towards the horses. “Take your pick.”


	2. Chapter 2

The horses didn’t seem much different to him, but she seemed to see something and chose the brown one, leaving the patchy gray one for him. He tied his belongings to the saddle and swung up, gesturing for Geralt to lead the way. Geralt made sure Ciri had a good seat on her mount, and kept the pace slow at first, watching her carefully to see how she did. When it became obvious that she was a decent rider, he gradually set a brisker speed, until it was _Jaskier_ that was having difficulty. He hadn’t ridden since he was a boy, and the one almost frantic ride to get to where the princess was hiding had not been enough to bring back his seat and refresh all the things he’d once known about riding a giant animal. He was also freezing, having spent far longer in just the thin shirt and shitty cloak that he’d stolen. He needed a wash and several layers back over his skin to try to warm up, but apparently there was not time. And he sure as hell wasn’t bastard enough to request his coat back from such a slip of a girl.

When they eventually stopped for the night, he almost wept. It hurt to get down, but it was also something of a relief. He paced around the small area that Geralt had chosen for them in an attempt to stretch out the pain in his backside and thighs. When he caught Geralt’s frown, he felt his face flush with guilt – there was camp to set up, and there he went, already being damned useless. He mumbled something even he couldn’t understand and ducked into the trees and brush around them, scouring about for firewood. He was able to bring back a fair armful. It wouldn’t be a roaring bonfire, but it would be enough to keep a bit of the chill at bay, and they likely wouldn’t want a big fire anyway. It could draw attention they wouldn’t want. Ciri had laid out a couple of bedrolls, so Jaskier set up the fire near enough to them to help her stay warm in the night. Geralt was rummaging in the food sacks that Jaskier had taken from the soldiers, and emerged with some hard loaves of travel bread and some cheese.

Ciri wrinkled her nose a little, probably unconsciously, at the offerings. “It’s not so bad,” Jaskier offered. “If you split the bread and toast it, and let the cheese melt on it, it’s actually quite decent. Here, I’ll show you.” He split one of the loaves and impaled a piece on a stick, then crumbled cheese on it before holding the whole affair near the flames. He kept it moving so as to not scorch the bread, and soon enough, the hard cheese melted to coat the bread. “Better with butter too, but I don’t think there’s any in either of the sacks. Try it.”

A little gingerly, the girl slid the mess off the stick, blew on it a bit to cool it, and took a bite. She chewed thoughtfully and then smiled at him. “It’s pretty good,” she agreed. She wolfed down a whole loaf under Geralt’s watchful gaze while Jaskier toasted his own bread and cheese. Geralt, of course, didn’t bother, and simply ate his portion as it was. After Ciri took a quick trip into the bushes to take care of business, Geralt ushered her into her bedroll for the night before he took up position on his own.

Jaskier did not have a bedroll. His last one had been lost when he’d fallen into a river, and it was either save his lute or his bedroll, and of course the lute had won. He had been staying at inns, and had planned his previous route so he could keep doing that, and had planned to buy a new one some time over winter. So he was left to curl up in the cloak as close to the fire as he dared.

“There’s an extra blanket in the pack on Roach,” Geralt rumbled quietly.

Jasker shook his head without looking at him. “I’m fine.” He thought he heard Geralt sigh, but just squeezed his eyes closed and hoped for some sleep. It had been a long couple of days.

He did manage a few hours of fitful sleep, which was something, at least. It was light enough, though, that he woke with a jerk as soon as he heard Geralt stir. Without a word, he got up himself and went to take care of his own business in the bushes, then returned to stomp out the remains of their fire while Geralt found some dried fruit for Ciri to eat. Jaskier didn’t ask for any himself and just waited until they were mounted and on their way before he dug into the sack that he had packed for himself, and found another loaf of the hard travel bread. It wasn’t as good without the melted cheese on it, and he all but drained his water skin to wash it down, but it was fine. No good delaying them just so he could have a slightly tastier breakfast. He would manage, and he would do it silently. He was bound to fuck up at some point over the long winter ahead, there was no point in arriving at Kaer Morhen with Geralt already sick of him.

The days bled into each other, each one starting much the same. If Jaskier woke in time, he could eat while the princess did. If he didn’t, he would have time for a quick piss, and then it was eating whatever he could manage while on the back of his horse. Ciri opened up after a couple of days and shot questions at both of them, though Jaskier was the more forthcoming with the answers. He could tell that Geralt _tried_ , but the witcher just wasn’t used to making long conversation. Jaskier had taught – only for a year before he’d decided it wasn’t for him, but still – and didn’t mind answering as well as he could until the girl was satisfied. He was a little more circumspect when she asked questions about his and Geralt’s history and kept his answers as vague as she’d allow him to get away with. She was bright, and quickly caught on that he wasn’t comfortable with that topic and stopped asking about it, although there were times when her eyes blazed with curiosity as she looked back and forth between them. If she wasn’t asking him a question, he kept his mouth shut. Even when they’d been on ‘good’ terms, Geralt had found his chatter annoying. If there wasn’t a good reason to speak, he wouldn’t do so.

Riding got easier after a few days. Either that, or the constant bouncing had simply deadened all his nerve endings. He didn’t much care. It was enough that he didn’t want to cry every day when he climbed off that damned horse. Sleeping didn’t get much easier, though. Ciri still wore his coat beneath her own cloak, and it was clear that it was doing its job well in keeping her warm so he’d rather cut off his own arm than ask for it back. Geralt had tried to push him down onto his own bedroll the second night, but Jaskier had flat out refused to even consider it. Geralt was being put out enough in keeping him safe, he wasn’t about to take the man’s bed, too! He made do with layering on a couple of undershirts beneath his warmest doublet and sleeping as close to the little fire as he dared. He didn’t sleep exactly well, but it was enough. And it helped more mornings than not so that he woke in time to eat when Ciri did, so on balance, everything was fine.

He just about swooned with gratitude when they found an abandoned farmhouse on their way. Geralt carefully scouted it out and beckoned them in when he deemed it safe enough. “Where are the people?” Ciri wondered.

“Sickness,” Geralt answered shortly. He pointed at a sign painted on the door. The paint had weathered mostly away. “Months ago, now, at least. You and Jaskier are safe enough. By now, it’s mostly superstition that keeps anyone from taking it over. We can rest a couple of days, let the horses eat and rest for the remaining journey. The trail isn’t easy.”

Jaskier prowled around and found the little house reasonably comfortable. There was a barn right outside, and enough decent hay that hadn’t rotted for the horses. There was a well with fresh, clean water in the yard. There were two bedrooms, and even a small tub in an alcove. If there had been any bodies left behind, Geralt had hid them well before having them come in, but since the house simply smelled musty, he doubted it. Jaskier came back to where Ciri was standing a little forlorn in the kitchen and patted her shoulder. “A couple days not being bounced around will be nice, hmm? We can have baths and wash clothes, and I’m pretty sure we can manage a better than usual meal or two while we’re here. Is the chimney clear, Geralt?”

“Clear enough, and wood outside. Start a fire, I’ll see to the horses.” Jaskier nodded obediently but he doubted Geralt saw it – the man had been talking as he left.

“Well! Let’s get that fire started, it’ll take the chill out in no time, hmm?” Ciri helped him haul in firewood, and he was even able to get flames going without Geralt’s witcher signs. A giant stew pot on a swing arm needed to be scrubbed out, but once it was, he was able to get water heating for a proper bath for the girl. He rummaged and found cleanish linens that mostly just needed a good shaking to get rid of the dust to be usable. When enough water had been heated, he filled the tub, added just enough cold water to keep it from being scorching, and left Ciri to have a good wash. He got another pot’s worth of water on to boil for when Geralt returned – the witcher had always preferred his baths almost boiling.

While that batch of water was heating, he found a smaller pot to make actual soup with, and got it filled with water, dried meat, and the last of their limp vegetables. They were nearly out of the hard travel bread, but it would taste well enough dipped into the soup. By the time Geralt returned from tending to the horses, Ciri was clean and wrapped in a blanket, soup was almost ready, and Jaskier had all their clothes save what he and Geralt were wearing ready for washing. He’d even managed to empty the tub from Ciri’s bath so that there wouldn’t be too much cold water to chill the almost boiling water that was ready for him. “If the horses are set, you can either eat or bathe, whichever you’d like first. The lady of the house was – bless her soul – well organized,” he offered quietly. “I found enough soap to clean all our things, and the blankets are just a bit dusty. Everything should be dry by morning if I get them washed tonight.”

Geralt gave him an inscrutable look but nodded agreeably enough. He sat beside Ciri in her makeshift robe and dished out a bowl of soup for her. Ciri dipped her bread into it unprompted and took a bite, grinning widely at Jaskier at the result. “This is pretty good, Jaskier! I bet you’re a really good cook when you have fresh food to use. I never learned how to cook anything, until Geralt showed me how to roast meat over a fire.”

“I’m no chef,” he demurred instantly. “I can cook well enough to keep myself fed without accidentally poisoning anyone, but that’s about it. But I’m glad it suits.” He had found a small wash tub for clothing, and when Geralt appeared to be choosing food first over bath, he dipped out enough of the near boiling water to take the worst of the chill out of the wash water so his hands wouldn’t ache too badly while he cleaned their clothes. He found himself starting to hum a bit as he dunked the first of Ciri’s shirts into the tub and had to cut himself off – they were in for a pleasant enough interlude, no sense irritating the witcher needlessly.

While he worked, Geralt finished his soup and bread, and easily carried the giant pot back to dump the water into the tub. Jaskier was surprised, and a little grateful, when he refilled it and put it back on the fire for a third bath before heading back to wash himself.

“For a bard, you don’t sing very much,” Ciri said, sounding rather sleepy.

Jaskier glanced at her as he wrung out as much water as he could from the shirt in his hands. “No, I suppose I don’t. We’re avoiding inns, so there’s been no reason to, and the cold air isn’t good for my lute if there’s no need to expose it.”

“I just pictured bards as always singing or humming or something.”

Jaskier smiled a little as he reached for a pair of trousers. They were in need of mending, but he wasn’t sure he had thread. Perhaps some could be found in the house? He would have to look. “When I’m composing, I suppose that’s accurate. But we’ve been traveling pretty hard, so there’s not been much chance for that. Besides, I’m reliably informed that listening to me repeatedly sing the same words over and over while I fix a melody, or slightly alter lyrics or whatever, is pretty annoying to listen to for hours at a time. My horse would probably throw me,” he joked.

She giggled. “I don’t think so. Would you sing something? Please?”

“What would you like to hear?”

“There was a song that hit the court not too long ago. Her Sweet Kiss? Do you know it?”

Jaskier stifled the choking sound that wanted to emerge. He still sounded a little strangled when he said, “Yeah, I, ah, know it. Sure.” He cleared his throat a couple times and started to sing. So of course Geralt returned from his bath right in the middle. It was a struggle to keep singing, but he had been performing for decades and he was sure Ciri didn’t pick up on it. Geralt probably did, but there was nothing he could do about that.

Ciri clapped when he finished. “It sounds almost like there’s three people in that song, it’s so fun. Everyone used to argue about that, but no one was for sure. Grandmother said….” She trailed off and Geralt moved to hug her.

“It’s alright,” he murmured. “It’s okay, Ciri. Come, the bedroom warmed up nicely. Why don’t you rest? Jaskier needs his bath yet tonight anyway, hmm?”

“Alright. Thank you for the song, Jaskier.”

“You’re welcome, sweetie,” he said gently. He went back to scrubbing cloth with a vengeance as Geralt took her into one of the bedrooms to tuck her in. He came back out a while later and frowned at Jaskier. “I’m sorry, she asked for that one,” he said quietly, not looking up. “I didn’t know it would make her sad.”

“That’s not – of course you couldn’t know. It’s fine. A lot of things make her sad right now.”

Jaskier nodded, relieved. He didn’t care to think what Geralt would do if he thought Jaskier were being careless with his child. He tensed again when Geralt approached and went still when the witcher reached down for the shirt that he was scrubbing. “Let me finish this, you still haven’t eaten or bathed.”

“It’s fine,” he said instantly. He was down to his own things, he could wash them just fine. “You should get some sleep yourself. I know you can go longer than me or Ciri, but a solid night’s sleep would be good for you. I know you haven’t been letting yourself sleep too deeply while we’re on the road.”

“You aren’t – damn it, Jaskier.”

Jaskier flinched. Fuck, even when he was _trying_ he still managed to fuck up. “Sorry, it’s hardly my place to tell you how to take care of yourself. Forget I said anything.” But he didn’t let go of his shirt, instead plunged back down into the water for another scrub.

“We should talk.”

“About what? I’m doing as you asked already. I’ll winter at Kaer Morhen. What else is there to talk about?”

“About the mountain.”

“I don’t think so – what more could there possibly be to say? Just let it go, Geralt. Please.” He really, truly did not want a rehash of his failings, however more gently Geralt intended to deliver them this time.

“Alright, fine. Then how about back there with the soldiers?”

“Again, I don’t see why. I highly doubt a situation like that will come up again, so there’s no need to talk about it.” Fuck fuck fuck, he had so hoped to continue on without having to hear all his new sins in Geralt’s voice. It was always so much worse when he could hear his faults in Geralt’s voice instead of his parents’, or his classmates’, or even his own. “Can I please just finish washing these things? I’d like to get everything done tonight so it has time to dry properly by the fire. Damp clothing is so uncomfortable,” he said, more than a little desperately.

Geralt sighed heavily. “Fine. We’ll talk another time. Just – for fuck’s sake, at least make sure you actually do eat something before you go to bed.”

“I will, you don’t need to worry about me.”

“I doubt that day will ever come.”

Jaskier flinched again and hunched a little more over the tub. He didn’t watch Geralt walk away, just tracked his footsteps to make sure he was gone. And then he went back to scrubbing at the clothes.

By the time he had finished washing everything and had them all laid out around the fire, the water in the pot had steamed half away. It at least made it light enough for him to carry quietly to the tub. It was too hot for him anyway, so the reduced water wasn’t such a hardship when he had to add some cold water to tolerate it. Of course, that just made it lukewarm, but whatever. At least he was able to scrub the worst of the grime from his hair and skin. His smell had to be driving Geralt to distraction, with that enhanced sense of smell of his.

Clean, he wrapped himself in the last of the blankets and returned to the main room. He threw a couple more logs onto the fire to keep it nice and hot, and curled on the floor by the hearth. At least the floor was smooth, no rocks to dig into his ribs. And being inside meant that there was no breeze to steal the warmth of the fire from him. As he dozed off, he realized he’d forgotten to eat. Oh well, he’d make up for it at breakfast.

Ciri woke him the next morning when she tripped on him in an attempt to add more wood to the dying fire. “Huh what?” He sat up and looked around with wide eyes, then hauled his blanket up higher over his chest when he saw her apologetic face. “Good morning, sweetie. Did you sleep alright?”

“It was okay. I think there was a mouse in the mattress, though.” Her face screwed up a bit, like she wasn’t sure if she was grossed out or not.

“Sorry, I didn’t even think of that. Mice do like beds of hay, just as much as people. They probably moved in when there wasn’t much human activity in the house anymore. We can take the mattress outside and give it a good shake to dislodge any visitors.”

“Okay. Why did you sleep out here? There was another bed.”

“You two were already sleeping, I didn’t want to wake you.” And, well, that other bed was in the room Geralt had slept in, right next to him, and he’d wanted to actually sleep instead of tossing and turning all night worrying that he’d wake the witcher.

He tied the blanket over his shoulder to guard against slippage and got up. While Ciri got that other log on the fire and got it blazing again, he moved around the room to check the clothes. Most of them were dry, save for a few pieces that had been further from the fire. Ciri took hers and vanished to dress while he adjusted what was left to finish drying. While he was doing that, Geralt came in from outside, still (somewhat hilariously) wrapped in nothing but a blanket but carrying a dead and plucked chicken and a small basket of eggs. Jaskier stared at both. “How the hell did chickens survive this long unattended?” he blurted.

“They were in the barn, roosting in the rafters. Sleep well?”

“Fine,” Jaskier dismissed. “We should see if there’s still any decent flour and sugar left. With eggs, I can make breakfast cakes, and I saw a couple jars of jam in the kitchen. We can roast the chicken for dinner.”

“You know more about cooking than I do,” Geralt said agreeably.

Jaskier ignored that. Geralt generally had not enjoyed when Jaskier did anything to the food they cooked on the road, even the slightest hint of spice sprinkled on the meat had been met with bitching.

Probably it was just him willing to put up with it to indulge Ciri.

Jaskier collected the driest of his clothing and ducked into the bathing alcove to dress. It was a little easier facing the day when one didn’t have to worry about a knot slipping or a stray breeze.

In the kitchen, he found some clay pots that held sugar and flour, and the pots had been made well enough to have a good seal. No worms or mice had yet gotten in. He hummed quietly as he mixed up batter for some simple cakes. With a bit of old lard in the bottom of a pan, he was able to cobble together a decent tasting breakfast for all of them. The strawberry preserves on top had Ciri sighing in pleasure as she devoured hers. A little amused, Jaskier held himself to just two and pushed his other two towards the girl.

Clean, dressed in clean clothes, and well fed, Ciri actually started to look a little heavy lidded after breakfast. Jaskier didn’t imagine she’d managed all three states at the same time terribly often since Cintra’s fall. He wasn’t much for subterfuge, really, but he figured extra sleep couldn’t hurt. So he pulled out his lute, resolutely not looking Geralt’s way so he wouldn’t have to see the witcher grimacing or rolling his eyes, and sat in the corner of the main room. Once it was tuned, he started to play. No singing, just the music, every slow, relaxing lullaby he could recall. Almost entranced, Ciri drifted in and curled on the wide stuffed chair that was easily large enough to fit two grown adults. In less than an hour, she was sound asleep again. Geralt slipped in and laid a blanket over her, and tucked her hair behind her ear in a gesture more tender than any he’d ever seen from the witcher before. Swallowing against the lump in his throat, he put his lute aside and went to explore the cellar in case there were any usable vegetables or anything still stored.

The cellar was even more horrifying than he’d thought it would be, and by the time he returned he felt greatly in need of another bath. A quick check showed the princess still asleep, so he had no qualms about stepping outside and yanking his shirt off so he could shake it out and dance around until the phantom sensation of spiders crawling all over him finally vanished. He turned to go back in and found Geralt standing in the doorway smirking at him. A hot flush of humiliation crawled over him, staining his skin red. He ducked his head and pulled the shirt back on. Rather than go in, he turned towards the barn. A little time spent with the nicely non-judgmental horses would be welcome.

They didn’t really need it, but he found a brush to run through manes and tails, and finally managed a small smile when the gray one he rode bumped his head into his chest affectionately. “That’s a good boy,” he muttered. “You should have a name, hmm? We’ve been sharing a saddle long enough, and you’ve been terribly patient with me. What do you think, would you like a name?” He got another headbutt that he decided to interpret as ‘yes, please, call me something other than gray horse, I have earned it’. “You _are_ a rather pleasant shade of gray, very dignified. Hmm, how about Shadow? No, too ominous. Same for Smokey. Moonrise!” He snapped his fingers and got a bit of a snort to the face for his efforts. “Very romantic, you could certainly be the steed of a dashing highwayman, robbing the wealthy so that the poor do not starve. What do you think?”

The newly christened Moonrise really didn’t seem to care too much one way or another, and just wanted Jaskier to keep scratching along his jaw where he apparently had a dreadful itch.

“I’m sorry,” Geralt’s voice gritted out behind him, sound a great deal as though he were uttering the words under torture. “I didn’t mean to mock you.”

Humiliation colored him all over again. “Can we please not do this? The day started out so well, I just want to forget it.”

“We used to be able to laugh.”

“That was before.” Before he’d known just how truly Geralt meant his mocking words, his insults. How little care was really there for him. Before Jaskier had known just how epically he had fucked up his only friend’s life. He could not forget any of that, he couldn’t just _unknow_ it.

“If you would just _let_ me –“

“I think we both know there is very little I could truly prevent you from doing,” Jaskier bit out, interrupting him. “But I don’t want to hear it. Do you understand? It wouldn’t change things. After so long, I don’t think anything could.” His parents had tried from the day he was born to change him, his classmates had tried with relentless mocking and ‘pranks’ that held humor for everyone except Jaskier to change him. He had but a tiny niche in life that required that he keep moving, never spend more than a few days with any one person in order for him to get by without things thrown at him, insults or weapons or both, and no amount of lecturing on his faults had ever been able to change him.

Geralt was silent for a few moments, and the sounds of the horses breathing and shifting seemed very very loud. Then, “Alright. If that – if that’s what you truly feel, then I suppose there’s no point to trying. I’ll let you be.”

“Thank you for that,” Jaskier said, quite sincerely. It was a relief to know he would not have to hear his faults listed out loud again. 


	3. Chapter 3

Something changed after that. Before, there had been a sense of waiting, like they were all biding their time for something. Jaskier had been waiting for Geralt to lay into him, and perhaps Geralt had been waiting for a chance to do so where Ciri would not have to hear. Which he could understand, of course. Necessity meant that for the time being, Jaskier was their companion, and it would only make the girl uneasy to know just what a fuck up he was. That sense of waiting was gone after that conversation. Instead, there was a cool, distant politeness they both maintained.

Ciri seemed a little confused, picking up on the even greater distance between them but blessedly didn’t ask. Jaskier had no idea what to tell her. He didn’t want to lie to her, but he also couldn’t imagine having to tell her the truth.

He was almost looking forward to reaching the great keep of legend. Not for the legend itself – none of the history of that place was for him, after all, and he couldn’t imagine Geralt being willing to tell him any of the stories around the place. But he imagined it was quite large, and surely he would be able to find plenty of out of the way corners to retreat to in order to keep out of Geralt’s way. That could only be a relief all the way around.

On the other hand, the _best_ thing would be if he just turned his horse a different direction and got himself lost in the far north and stayed there. But he had agreed, and he had never gone back on his word, and Ciri would grow disillusioned with him soon enough as it was; no need to hasten it.

When they started up the so called trail, he began to have really serious doubts. The terrain was rough, and there were plenty of places where they had to walk the horses. While Geralt seemed to know exactly where they were going, Jaskier could not identify any markers to indicate an actual trail being there. There was no way he’d be able to traverse it himself, in either direction, alone. That made it safer for Ciri, of course, but it also meant that he would be entirely dependent on Geralt agreeing to let him leave in the spring – and leading him back down.

And when Geralt stopped and swore, Jaskier felt the bottom drop out of his stomach. “What?” he demanded.

“A storm is coming early,” Geralt said grimly.

Weather had never concerned Geralt over much before, so… “When you say storm, you don’t mean just a bit of lightening or a couple inches of snow, do you?” he asked, managing to keep his voice even.

“No, I do not. It’s likely to be a couple feet of snow, a complete white out, and temperatures dropping to dangerous levels. Get the blankets on the horses,” he ordered, and dismounted to suit actions to words.

Jaskier and Ciri did as they were told. He’d felt guilty at the time for pilfering some of the blankets from that farmhouse, but he was glad he had done so now. He was able to cover Moonrise and his lute, and had an extra to tie around his own shoulders since he doubted the cloak he’d stolen would even come close to being enough. “How much further to the keep?” he asked as he moved to help Ciri get the blanket secured on her mount.

“In normal weather, another day and a half. Hurry, I want to cover as much ground as we can before it hits.”

Jaskier hurried.

Their progress was hampered by hitting another of those stretches with poor footing where they had to lead the horses, and the pace Geralt set was grueling. Ciri began to flag sooner than Jaskier would have liked, and Geralt simply picked her up and left Jaskier to lead both mounts.

By mid-afternoon, the clouds rolled in, and with them came the wind – frigid wind, that made Jaskier genuinely fear for his extremities. But he clenched his fingers around the horses’ reins and kept putting one foot in front of the other. When the snow joined in, it wouldn’t have mattered if the trail evened out again, only Geralt had a hope of seeing where he was going. Jaskier had to practically walk on his heels to keep him in sight.

When Geralt stopped, Jaskier bumped into him, so focused on keeping his feet moving that he missed it. “What is it?”

“There’s shelter – of a sort. We’ll have to make do, the horses can’t keep going in this.”

“Can they make it through the amount of snow that’s dumping on us?”

“I can break a trail, if need be. Come here.” Geralt grabbed the front of his shirt and led him over to the side and through a pair of pine trees. On the other side of the trees was a small, odd hollow: a ring of pine trees had grown in an almost perfect circle, and their full branches blocked a lot of the wind and most of the snow. It would be a miserable few hours, but if they could get a fire started, they would live.

Jaskier scraped away the light layer of snow that had made it through until he found the ground. There was a layer of pine needles there, which he also scraped to the side – they made good tinder, when dry. Geralt didn’t bother with searching the ground around them for firewood. He simply drew his steal sword and began hacking the lower limbs off the trees around them. Green wood didn’t burn well, but if Geralt used igni, that wouldn’t be too much of an issue. Jaskier took the branches as he hacked them down and stripped the smaller sticks from them, and then broke the larger pieces into more manageable chunks. When he had a sufficient pile built, he took one look at Ciri, hollow-eyed and shivering, and barked out, “Geralt! Fire!” Geralt turned a glare on him, followed his gaze to the girl, and shot the sign at the firewood. The fire blazed into life. Jaskier carefully urged Ciri closer to it, and against her struggling fingers, opened the blanket she had around her so the warmer air from the fire could reach her and be trapped inside the heavy quilt, rather than having to fight to get through it to warm her. When her shivering kicked up a bit, he knew she was starting to warm.

He turned his attention to the horses then and got them situated as close to the fire as they would tolerate so their legs wouldn’t freeze. He checked on Ciri and found her feeding branches into the fire carefully, and she gave him a wan smile when she saw him looking. He beamed at her as best he could, then grabbed what food he could find and the lone metal pot he had also pilfered from the farmhouse. He filled the pot with snow and placed it right up into the fire to get the snow to melt. He had to keep adding more snow until he had sufficient water, and then started adding bits of jerky to it, along with a few sad, shriveled potatoes until he had what a _very_ generous person might call soup warming. It would taste dreadful, most likely, but it would give them something hot to eat and drink, and that was more important than taste at present.

Better if he had thought to bring spoons or bowls as well for the journey, but they would make do with drinking out of the pot and fishing the meat and potato out with their fingers.

Then he went back to breaking down the tree limbs into manageable pieces to keep the fire fed.

When Geralt judged they had sufficient wood, he took over from Jaskier. “Sit down,” he ordered, pointing to the ground next to Ciri. “You don’t even have gloves. You’ll lose your fingers.”

“Lost them last winter,” Jaskier mumbled. “I meant to replace them, but….” He trailed off. It hadn’t even occurred to him to ask to stop somewhere for a pair, not when the goal was avoiding anyone who might identify them to Nilfgaard.

“Sit,” Geralt repeated, a little more gently. Jaskier obeyed, arranging his blanket much as he had arranged Ciri’s. His boots, at least, would give no cause for complaint. They were well made and his feet were still dry. He was less pleased when he thought to check Ciri’s.

“Are your feet wet?” he demanded. Geralt looked up sharply, then looked at Ciri’s feet.

She stared at him with wide eyes. “A little? It’s alright, it’s not uncomfortable.”

“Perhaps not, but it’s dangerous. Geralt, my pack. I’ve dry socks at the bottom.” Jaskier shifted to start untying the worn boots on her feet.

“They’ll be colder,” she objected.

“Wet feet in this could cost you your toes, and I don’t know if any of Geralt’s healing potions would even begin to help – if you could even take them without dying. We need to get your feet dry, sweeting.” He didn’t like how red and angry her damp feet were when he pulled off her socks and put them as close to the fire as he dared. Geralt knelt beside them with one of Jaskier’s shirts and the dry socks in hand. He dried her skin first with the shirt, then slid the socks on when the skin was dry. “Better?” he asked.

“They’re starting to burn,” she whimpered.

“That’s good – they’re warming up. I know it hurts, but you have to get the blood warmed so your skin warms. It will pass,” he promised. He pulled off her gloves and was at least happier with her hands. While they were red, they weren’t as bad as her feet, and the skin was dry. He checked on his makeshift ‘soup’ and found it pleasantly hot but not boiling. He held it for her. “Get some of this in you. You must keep your core warm, sweeting, and at least the salt will give your body fuel to help it stay warm. The taste is probably going to be dreadful but needs must.”

She sipped at the water and made a face, then laughed. “It really is dreadful.”

Laughing was good – she could laugh at Jaskier all she liked. It meant she was warm enough to notice things to laugh at. When she’d drunk about half the liquid, and fished out as many of the chunks as she could stand, he turned to offer the pot to Geralt. The witcher shook his head. “I’m built to withstand this much better than you. I’ll be fine with plain jerky. When you’ve finished, I want to melt more snow for the horses, get some warm liquid into them.” As if to prove his words, he dug out a hunk of dried venison and sat beside them to start gnawing on it.

With a shrug, Jaskier made himself choke down the remaining ‘soup’. When he’d finished, he made to get up to refill the pot with snow, but Geralt plucked it out of his hands. “No gloves. Stay there, I’ll take care of it.” So saying, he vanished back between the trees and came back with the pot overflowing with fresh snow. It melted quickly, and he took it to each of the horses in turn, having to refill and melt more snow after each drank their fill, seemingly pleased with the warm water. He doled out handfuls of their dwindling grain, adjusted blankets all around, and then once again sat beside Jaskier and Ciri. “The storm is likely to last at least through the night.”

“Lovely. Well, that will at least give Ciri’s boots time to dry out. I wish I had noticed their condition sooner,” Jaskier fussed.

“There’s always leather available at Kaer Morhen. I’ll patch them when we get there, it’ll do for the winter.”

Jaskier chewed his lip as he thought. “Will you really be able to break trail alright for the horses? Should we wrap their legs?”

“We should. Not now, but in the morning. And yes, I can break a trail. I’ve done it before. We’ll need to lead the horses in a line, but it’s doable. Ciri will have to ride, but she’s small enough it won’t overburden any of them.”

“I can walk,” the girl said stubbornly, a hint of her grandmother’s steal in her tone.

“Not with boots that leak you can’t. Unless you just hate having all your toes?” She frowned up at him. “Truly, princess, frostbite is no joke. We do not fuss because you are young or female – it’s to save your life. Frostbite will kill the extremities, and infection can set in, poison the blood.”

“He’s right. His boots are sound, as are mine. I should have checked yours before we started up the trail, but it’s too late now. Rest, both of you. Once we start again, it’s not going to be easy.”

Jaskier nodded, and rearranged Ciri until she was draped mostly over his lap, with her feet still next to the fire. Her shivering had died down again, thankfully because she was warm enough rather than dangerously cold. It didn’t take her long before she was dozing. Jaskier doubted that he would be able to get much rest. The wind sounded awful, half the time howling like some wild thing in the night. Instead he stared at the fire and let his mind drift, recalling every old ballad he could think of and rewriting many of them the way **he** would have done, had he been the original composer. It was an old trick, meditative, that kept his mind busy without dwelling on whatever was upsetting him. Being in danger of freezing to death had never been the upsetting thing before, but it still worked well enough. He startled and clutched Ciri protectively when Geralt stood up abruptly, but the witcher was just checking the horses. When he returned, though, he had both his and Ciri’s bedrolls, and jammed them up against Jaskier’s back.

“You can at least relax a little,” Geralt explained to his wide eyed look. His gaze went all sorts of soft and fond when it drifted over Ciri, and Jaskier nodded reluctantly. He had done well enough with the girl, even if his own lack of gloves had been a point against him. He shifted himself until he was half reclined over the rolls and let his gaze drift back to the fire and his mind back to his rewriting.

At some point, he obviously fell asleep, because Geralt had to shake him awake the next morning. He blinked up at him, smiling automatically until reality returned. Then he sat up and looked around. Ciri was still curled against him, but the wind had stopped its howling, and the sky visible through the trees was a bright, bright blue. “How much snow fell?” he asked.

“Enough that I’ll be breaking a trail. We’ll put the horses on a line and you’ll have to help lead them.”

“Okay.” Jaskier tried to slide out from beneath Ciri without waking her, but that was a losing prospect. She bolted upright and looked around with wide, startled eyes, and relaxed only when she saw Geralt. “Let me check your boots.” Jaskier stretched out and snagged the ragged things and found the interior nicely dry. Her own socks had dried as well, and he had her layer them on under his own larger ones before putting on her boots. “Have we time for food?” he asked Geralt.

“Yes. We shouldn’t get another storm, and there’s at least one more place to rest on the way when we need it. We should all eat what we can now.” Geralt dug into their food sack himself as if to demonstrate.

Jaskier didn’t bother with the disgusting ‘soup’ of the night before. They were warm enough for the moment, and the jerky was honestly better dry. He _did_ melt more snow for drinking water, since it wouldn’t do to get dehydrated. When they were all fed and watered, he and Geralt left Ciri by the fire and turned to the horses. They cut wide swaths from one of their blankets to tie around the horses’ legs to help protect them from the frigid snow they would have to tromp through. Jaskier cut a couple extra pieces and let Geralt tie them carefully on his wrists in make-shift mittens. Not as good as fur lined leather, but far better than nothing if he would be leading the horses and unable to wrap the edges of his cloak around them for the trek.

When they set out again, it was at a much slower pace than before. Even with Geralt stomping through the snow, the going was difficult. The bright sun glaring off the pristine white snow hurt Jaskier’s eyes so that he had to walk while squinting. His focus narrowed to only the path in front of him, always keeping Geralt’s black clad legs in view so that he stepped exactly where Geralt stepped, and thus led the horses exactly in the same path. It was utterly exhausting. His legs began to scream at him, but not before his lungs let him know that they didn’t appreciate the dry, frigid air he was sucking in.

He almost collapsed when Geralt called a halt, this time in the shelter – such as it was – of a large outcropping of stone that at least offered shadow to stand in and blocked the light wind that had blown up again. Jaskier dropped Roach’s reins and leaned against the stone, letting his eyes close. Somehow, the glare still seemed to be searing his eyes, even through his lids. He listened with half an ear to the low murmur of voices as Geralt spoke to Ciri and probably the horses as well. He only cracked an eye reluctantly when someone shook his shoulder. “Eh?”

Geralt was next to him, holding that small tin pot. A tiny fire was crackling, rather cheerfully really, and Ciri was knelt next to it in a small area of cleared snow. Jaskier blinked dumbly at him. “Drink, Jaskier. It’s warm, at least.”

Jaskier fumbled at the pot, and Geralt had to untie the scraps around his hands before he could properly hold it. His hands were angry red, but not yet turning black anywhere, which was good. The water in the pot seemed almost scalding to him, though logically he knew Geralt would not have done that. He forced himself to ignore the discomfort and drink, and once he got started, he drained the whole pot. The warm liquid seemed to help wake him up, and he looked around a little more alert. “How’s our progress?”

“As well as expected. Breaking a trail was always going to slow us down. We will have the rest of today and at least all of tomorrow. Can you eat?”

Jaskier made a face before he could help it. Just the thought of chewing the dry meat was exhausting – the actual effort to do so would sure be more draining than restoring. Geralt nodded like he understood. “Stay here – I won’t be long.” He vanished around the side of their little shelter with an ease and energy that made Jaskier jealous for a moment before he shook it off and moved to get something useful done.

While Geralt was off doing whatever, he went through the process of melting snow so the horses could drink their fill. Even having ridden for the day, the cold and the effort of staying up on the plodding animal seemed to have drained Ciri as well, and there was little comfort that Jaskier could offer her besides a smile and arm around her shoulders.

When Geralt returned, he had two fat rabbits dangling from his hands. With brutal efficiency, he had them skinned and spitted over the small fire. Jaskier stared at the cooking meat, and he had to admit, his mouth started to water. Fresh, tender meat, he could probably manage. Jaskier and Ciri both reached eagerly when Geralt deemed the rabbits cooked enough, and Jaskier gave him a grateful smile. He knew the effort had been mostly for Ciri’s sake, but there were two rabbits when one would have sufficed for the girl – he appreciated it.

He was a little bit less appreciative when, as they were reluctantly packing back up to leave, Geralt took the rabbit skins – scraped and washed in snow but still – and tied them over his hands, then layered the quilt scraps over top. The rabbit fur was far warmer, and the skin made a barrier the wind couldn’t get through, but untreated they didn’t even count as hides, just – body leftovers. But he kept his mouth shut, because it made sense and he didn’t actually want to lose a finger or ten. It made his grip clumsy on the reins when they started back on the trail, but he compensated by winding them around his wrist a few times to keep them secure.

He returned to the almost trance-like state he’d achieved earlier, just staring at Geralt’s legs as they broke through the snow, loosening it enough that he and the horses could slog through it. Time was basically meaningless as they moved, and he didn’t really wake back up to the world until Geralt called another halt. They were in another spot where the pine trees had grown close enough together to make a vague shelter from the elements, and the sun was scarlet on the horizon. Jaskier just sort of stared dumbly as Geralt hacked off branches and scraped a patch of ground bare and then got a fire started. It was only when Geralt took his arm and gave him a little shake that he moved again, and then only because Geralt didn’t really give him a choice. The bedrolls had been laid out right next to the fire, and Geralt pushed him to sit, then plopped Ciri down right next to him.

She looked worried, and that was enough to get his exhausted brain moving again. He smiled and wrapped an arm around her shoulders. “Alright, sweetie?”

“I’m okay. You seem really tired, Jaskier, are you alright?”

“Well, I _am_ tired, but I’m fine. Don’t worry about me.”

“If you say so,” she said doubtfully.

Geralt dropped down beside them, making Jaskier jump. He hadn’t heard the other man moving. Geralt untied the quilt and rabbit skin from around his hands and carefully checked his fingers. They were actually the warmest part of him. His feet and legs up to the knee had gone numb hours ago. Frowning, Geralt reached out to rearrange him so his legs ran parallel to the fire, and wrestled off his boots. Snow had melted and wet his trousers above the edge of his boots, and the moisture had slowly seeped down inside. Jaskier grimaced as Geralt peeled off his damp socks. Fortunately, the constant effort to move had kept his blood pumping, so while the skin was red and wrinkled, there weren’t signs of frostbite just yet.

Geralt laid his socks so close to the fire that Jaskier worried they would actually start to burn, and then did the same with his boots. It was too cold to try to wrestle on his spare trousers, and Ciri already wore his other socks, so his pants would have to dry as best they could while he wore them. “Don’t move,” Geralt ordered shortly. “I’m going to find more food.”

Jaskier nodded agreement, but he wasn’t sure Geralt saw as the witcher immediately turned and vanished into the trees. He contented himself with hugging the girl against his side. After a few minutes, the dreaded burning started as his feet and legs started to warm up. He gritted his teeth, suddenly wide awake. He doubted it could have hurt worse to have actual boiling water poured on him, but at least this, he knew, would be fairly short lived. Ciri hissed in sympathy and rubbed at his legs in an effort to help. After several long, agonizing minutes, the worst of the burning faded away, and he looked around. The horses were nearby, heads all drooping tiredly. Their little pot was sitting on the ground next to the fire, just within reach if Jaskier leaned. Geralt hadn’t filled it with snow, but that was easy enough to fix without shifting off the bedrolls, and soon enough, they had water to drink. By the time Geralt returned with a gutted fawn, both he and the princess had managed to drink their fill and had more snow melting for Geralt or the horses.

Geralt nodded approvingly when he saw them and the pot of melting snow. With brutal efficiency, he skinned the baby deer and erected a fair spit over the fire. Ciri shifted close enough to keep it turning as he instructed, while he moved to attend to the horses. When he came back to the fire, he had the wet scraps that had been around the horses’ legs draped over his arm. Jaskier frowned in thought. They wouldn’t all dry by morning just laid out – some would be too far from the fire to benefit from the heat enough to dry. “Geralt, if you can get some long, skinny sticks, we might be able to make a sort of rack,” he suggested hesitantly. He’d seen such things before, in laundry rooms in various noble houses. When you couldn’t go out, you went up, in order to maximize space.

Grunting acknowledgement, Geralt dropped the scraps and once more disappeared into the trees. When he returned with long, springy branches, they worked together to get a rack assembled, using spare lute strings and thread from Geralt’s medical satchel to tie the branches together. It wasn’t pretty, but it held up when Geralt draped the scraps over it. Geralt added more wood to the fire, making it burn higher and hotter, and Jaskier shivered a little in reaction. He wasn’t sure he would ever be fully warm again. Geralt took over turning the spit, and they all just waited in silence for the meat to cook. No one had the energy for speech.

Even once the meat had been sufficiently cooked and they’d all eaten, they were too tired. And Jaskier, at least, was very sore. Slogging through the snow, even loosened as Geralt had made it, had worked his muscles in ways they weren’t used to. He didn’t let himself think about doing it all over again for at least another whole day – he would probably weep if he considered it. Instead he just laid down, pulled Ciri down so she was between him and the fire, and let Geralt layer a couple of the blankets over them.


	4. Chapter 4

The following day was worse. His whole body ached from the previous day’s strain. While his socks and boots had dried and were in fact quite warm when he put them on, that was the _only_ positive that he could find. Given a choice, he would have rested another day right where they were, but there wasn’t a choice. So he forced himself up and moving. He helped wrap the horses’ legs again, let his hands be wrapped in fur and quilt, and silently trudged behind Geralt through the snow. His mind stayed largely blank, even when they stopped for food and water again – if he focused too much, the pain and exhaustion of his body would make him just sit down where he was and not get back up, and he couldn’t afford to do that. Geralt needed him to lead the horses. Ciri certainly could not do it, not with leaky boots. So he ate and drank what was put in his hands, and walked when Geralt told him to walk, and didn’t think about anything.

He vaguely registered Geralt coming to a halt and tapping his cheeks, but he didn’t have it in him to understand the words said to him, much less find words to respond. He listened to the way Geralt threw his head back and howled but didn’t even have the energy to find it odd. Everything simply _was_.

Three men appeared seemingly out of nowhere. Geralt had stopped, so Jaskier stopped. One of the men plucked Ciri from her horse and turned back the way they’d come from. Two of the other men went to the horses, one of them unwinding the reins from Jaskier’s hands. Geralt made no protest, so Jaskier just stood there and let it happen. Then Geralt came right up to him and picked him up. “I can walk,” he slurred in protest.

“Hush, Jaskier. We’re almost safe,” Geralt assured him. He didn’t put him down and just squeezed a little when Jaskier tried to squirm down. The effort exhausted him, so he just hung limply in Geralt’s grasp.

He wasn’t sure how long the trek was until a large, imposing keep loomed up out of the snow. The gates were open and an older man, grizzled and worn, stood waiting. He took one look at Jaskier in Geralt’s arms and scowled. “Get him down to the baths. I’ll bring food,” he barked. Geralt didn’t even break stride. The sudden warmth hit him in the face when they stepped inside the keep, and it just got warmer as Geralt took a set of stairs down. Things got decidedly humid as Geralt emerged into a large, echoing chamber and finally put him down on the floor. Jaskier blinked around, not quite taking everything in. They seemed to be in a sort of cave, with half a dozen large pools of water, and each breath was like breathing in pure steam. He tried to assist as Geralt wrestled him out of his clothes, but suspected his efforts were more hindrance than help. When he was down to his small clothes, Geralt lifted him again and then slid him into one of the pools.

Fire exploded across his nerve endings and he found breath enough to scream and tried to struggle up out of the water. “I know, Jaskier. I know, I’m sorry, but you need to stay in.” Geralt slid into the pool with him, still fully clothed, and held him still submerged up to his neck. He might have cried. Gradually, the scalding pain eased off to mere discomfort, though the warmth that was slowly seeping back into his core was welcome enough.

“Ciri?” he managed to ask.

“In better shape than you. Eskel brought her right behind us.” Geralt let him sit on his own finally, on a bench that seemed to have been carved into the rock. He tilted Jaskier’s face side to side. “We’ll need to put salve on your face – you’re nearly blistered from the cold.”

“It’s fine,” Jaskier dismissed.

“It’s not. You could have died because I dragged you up the mountain without even making sure you were prepared. Fuck, you didn’t even have a coat!”

“Ciri’s wearing it,” Jaskier defended himself. Geralt stared at him in blank astonishment. “She was cold, when I found her, and I couldn’t exactly go wandering up to a Nilfgaardian camp dressed in a fine winter coat and have them buy that I was a vagabond, now could I? And she’s so tiny, what was I supposed to do, take it back? I know you think little of me, Geralt, but surely not _that_ little…do you?” he finished, voice small. Well, of course he probably did. Jaskier had made much over the years of things like good food and fine clothes, of course Geralt would think him shallow. He _was_ shallow, and what evidence did the witcher have to know that there were lines that even Jaskier would not cross? “The cloak I got from the soldiers was good enough,” he tried.

“It wasn’t. Not for you, and not for Ciri. You both could have died because I wasn’t prepared.”

“You can’t control the weather, and it’s not your fault that storm blew in so early. I know you’d never endanger a child, Geralt, much less your Child Surprise. I’m sure Ciri knows it too.” Jaskier started to pat his shoulder and then thought better of it. Just because Geralt was upset at the way things had turned out didn’t mean the man had forgiven him for fucking up his life. He wrapped both arms around himself instead. “If I had picked better horses, we could have moved faster,” he said instead. “Hells, if I were a better rider, we probably could have moved faster. I know you were taking it easy for my sake,” he apologized.

Geralt gave him a strange look, but whatever he would have said was cut off by the sound of footsteps. Jaskier looked over to see the grizzled older man from earlier approaching, carrying a wooden bowl that had steam rising up from it. He studied Jaskier critically for a moment then nodded at whatever he saw. “Here, boy, eat. Geralt, get your fool ass out of the water and go find something dry for the both of you. The girl is in the kitchen eating with Eskel. Lambert and Aubry just got in with the horses – all three are fine and are eating well in the stable.”

Jaskier accepted the bowl the man handed to him, then held still as the man examined his fingers. When he got a nod of approval, he dug into the stew. It lacked spices, but was still tasty for all of that, with generous hunks of pork, potato, and carrots floating in a thick gravy. Geralt obediently climbed out of the pool and walked off, oddly enough with the air of someone retreating with tail tucked. Jaskier nervously eyed the older man as he ate, but the man said nothing until he had finished.

“So, based on the lute that was tied onto one of the horses, you’re Jaskier. The bard. Geralt has mentioned you over the years.”

Jaskier wilted and was only thankful that the water was hot enough that his skin was already red, so the shamed blush wouldn’t be visible. “Yes, I’m Jaskier. I know you weren’t expecting me. I promise, I’ll do my best to stay out of everyone’s way,” he assured the man.

“Hm. I would have expected more enthusiasm. More questions.”

Jaskier lowered his eyes to the water. “I know I am not here as a guest but as a necessity. Geralt thought I was in danger from Nilfgaard.”

“I see. I am Vesemir. I am the last remaining teacher here. I would appreciate you staying out of the library. Our secrets are our own. Otherwise, you’re free to wander the keep, as long as a door is open. You should remain inside its walls, as we have never bothered overmuch with clearing the mountain of monsters. If the terrain didn’t kill you, one of them certainly would.”

Jaskier nodded acceptance of the rules. They were more lenient than he had any right to expect. “I’ll stay put and out of trouble,” he promised.

“Hmm.”

Geralt returned then, changed out of his usual armor for what looked like soft woolen trousers and shirt, and a pair of old, worn looking boots. He had a bundle of cloth in his hands, which turned out to be another set of wool clothing for Jaskier, along with a towel. Jaskier clambered out of the warm water reluctantly; he’d rather have taken a nap right there, foolish as that would be. He toweled himself off roughly and yanked on the borrowed clothing. When Geralt would have taken his wet things, Jaskier beat him to it. He was already an unwelcome presence in the keep, he wasn’t going to compound the problem with having anyone looking after him!

Vesemir rather pointedly took his empty bowl and Jaskier ducked his head. Well, he was off to a fantastic start at that, wasn’t he? “Get the boy to a room to rest. He’s ready to drop where he stands. And then you and I shall have a talk, Geralt.”

“Yes, sir. Jaskier, follow me.” Geralt led him slowly up a few flights of stairs into what was obviously a living section of the keep. The hallway was fairly dust free and well lit, even for human eyes. Geralt pointed at the closed doors nearest the stairs. “Vesemir, Eskel, Lambert, Aubry, Ciri, me. You can take any of the rooms with an open door. I’ll bring your pack and lute up – I know your legs are tired.” Jaskier eyed the corridor and headed for the room at the furthest end. Hopefully, between the distance and the thick walls and doors, it would be enough for him to play without disturbing anyone. Geralt’s face was oddly tight as he followed him in. There was a fire already laid in the hearth that Geralt lit with a quick flick of his hand. Jaskier laid his wet clothes out around the hearth as Geralt pulled a stack of blankets and furs out of the wardrobe. He started to make the bed, and Jaskier moved to take over once he was finished with the clothing. “Alright,” Geralt conceded. “I’ll be back with your things. You should rest.”

“Thank you. I will. I won’t be any trouble, Geralt. I promise.”

Geralt paused in the doorway, shook his head, and then left. Jaskier sank onto the half made bed and let his head fall into his hands. The whole winter stretched in front of him like his own personal hell; locked up with a bunch of people who already knew how annoying he was, where he wouldn’t have even the short grace period of them finding him amusing before they tired of him. And they were all Geralt’s friends – his family, really, if what Jaskier had been able to glean about witchers over the years was even partially accurate. How they must already despise him for the mess he’d made of Geralt’s life! He was sure neither Geralt nor Vesemir believed his promises to stay out of the way, and Jaskier could not blame them. He had never been very good at that, and even his best efforts were likely to fall short, simply because he could not exist without making noise and smells, and their senses were so much more keen than a human’s that he had no hope of staying out of their notice.

Perhaps if he found some room on the other side of the keep, somewhere the witchers didn’t really go, to spend most of his time in, that could help. If he only returned to this room to sleep, and if he avoided sharing meals…or would that be rude? It wasn’t like Jaskier could help much with the food. He was a miserable hunter, and anyway Vesemir had already forbidden him from setting foot outside the castle. It seemed rude to slink around and take food and ignore his hosts, however little they cared for such niceties. He didn’t want them thinking he thought himself above them or anything. Perhaps it would be best to attend a meal or two to see if he could decipher their preferences. If it seemed they were annoyed by his presence more than usual, he would take his meals elsewhere.

Geralt returned briefly with his lute and his pack. He eyed Jaskier where he sat on the side of the bed, seemed as though he would say something, and then just turned on his heel and left, shutting the door behind himself with a soft click. Jaskier didn’t know what to make of that and was on the verge of exhaustion frying his mind as badly as it had been when Geralt hauled him into the keep like so much grain in a sack. He arranged the bedding into some semblance of order and crawled beneath it. He would figure things out when he’d slept.

Waking was unpleasant. Every part of him ached. Were it not for his screaming bladder, he would have happily remained asleep another few days, at least. But his bladder would not be ignored, and it would probably be good for his screaming muscles for him to walk around and try to loosen them.

He truly hoped all the witchers were elsewhere, far enough away that none of them could hear his gasps and whimpers as he crawled out of the bed and edged his way to the door. As he’d hoped, the privy was the door that had been closed nearest to his, and he was able to alleviate at least a small part of his discomfort rather quickly. He returned to his room, more alert, less uncomfortable, and made himself walk in slow circles for a few minutes to further ease abused muscles. As he did, he studied the room, though there was little enough to be studied. There was a bed, a wardrobe, a small stand with a basin and pitcher of water, and the fireplace. No wall hangings or paintings or personalization of any kind. Jaskier had seen inn rooms more welcoming. Granted, the bed was big and comfortable, the blankets plush and warm, and the fireplace more than large enough to keep the chill at bay. But it was altogether a depressing sort of room, and he couldn’t even tell if that was because it was just a spare room until he’d taken it over, or if that was just how _all_ the rooms of the keep were. He knew only Geralt, and Geralt definitely dismissed things such as decoration as frivolous and unnecessary.

When he could walk without wincing, he turned back to his things. The clothing he’d been wearing on the long trek up the mountain were dry, if also badly in need of washing. He checked his lute, and spent some time oiling it so the wood would not crack in the dry winter air. He longed to play it but felt that would not be a good idea until he knew the rhythms of the keep and knew when the witchers would be elsewhere so as to not disturb them with the noise. He opened his pack then and pulled out the rest of his clothing, wrinkled but still clean from the washing he’d given everyone’s things at that farmhouse. He dressed, washed and shaved his face, wincing as the soap stung severely chapped skin, and then braced himself to leave the room once more.

He walked slowly through the corridors, looking inside those rooms which had open doors and not even touching the handles of the closed doors. He found the main hall and the kitchen, passed by the library and gave it a wide berth. He found an armory filled with enough weapons to outfit an army, and located the stairs that lead back down to the baths.

He did not find any witchers. Or a princess.

Jaskier returned to the kitchen and stirred the heavy cauldron of stew left to stay hot, then dished himself a modest bowl full. He washed and dried the bowl and spoon when he’d finished, then returned to his exploring. The higher he went, the dustier the corridors became, as though no one ever ventured up so high anymore. Aside from the occasional sneeze, Jaskier found it almost peaceful. Lonely, certainly, but it did bode well for him being able to find an unused area where he would not cause disruption to the people that lived here. Eventually he found himself stepping out onto a wide stone balcony, and finally discovered where everyone had gone. Down below, there seemed to be a training yard, and he could just make out all the witchers and even Ciri practicing away with swords. He was too far to hear much, but the occasional clash of metal on metal managed to make it to his ears. Geralt was easy enough to identify by his hair, and he was pretty sure that the head of gray was Vesemir, which left the other three dark haired men to be Eskel, Lambert, and Aubry. Vesemir, it seemed, was working closely with Ciri, while Geralt seemed pressed by all three of the others.

Satisfied with having found the other occupants, he returned to his room to gather his dirty clothes, and the clothes he’d been lent, and made his way back to the baths. He could not resist a second soak, that really helped ease the residual ache from his muscles, even as he washed everything. He wrung everything as dry as he could manage before returning again to his room to drape everything to dry. Then he sat on the bed with his lute and finally, finally, let his fingers dance lightly over the strings for the first time in weeks. He kept his playing quiet and didn’t lose himself in the notes as he wished so that he might hear anyone approaching and stop before the sound grew bothersome. It took quite a while, and it wasn’t until the sun was long down that he heard light footsteps pattering towards his door. Regretfully, he stilled the strings and began to pack the instrument in its case.

A light knock sounded at his door. “Come in,” he called.

The door flew open and Ciri bounded in. “Jaskier! You’re awake! Were you playing? I thought I heard a bit of music when I came upstairs.”

Jaskier smiled. “I am awake, and I was indeed playing. Just some simple things to keep my fingers nimble. How are you feeling? It was a difficult journey.”

“Not so bad for me, all I had to do was stay on the horse. With the blanket on me, the horse kept me warm enough,” she dismissed. “ _You_ were the one that had to slog through snow up past your knees! Are you feeling better?”

“I am, yes. I was a bit stiff when I woke, but I walked around a bit and it’s mostly gone.”

“Oh good, then say you’ll come down to dinner? Have you seen the keep? It’s huge! I got to explore a little this morning, but then it was time for sword practice.” She glowed at the words. “I’ve wanted to learn for so long, but grandmother….” She trailed off, face crumpling.

Jaskier could not let that look go unanswered and immediately pulled the girl into a hug. “It’s alright, sweetie. It’s alright to miss her. Go ahead and have a good cry, there’s nothing wrong with that at all.”

“Tears won’t bring back the dead,” she whispered.

“No. No they won’t, but sometimes letting them out can make missing them just a tiny bit easier to bear.” As though she had really needed the permission, she let go all at once and began to sob into his shoulder, fists clenched in his doublet. The storm did not last over long, but Jaskier suspected it was just a brief squall that would return again and again. Everyone had seen how fiercely Calanthe had loved Pavetta, and he could not imagine a world in which she did not love her granddaughter just as much. Ciri had known nothing but love until Nilfgaard ripped it from her all in one night.

She stepped back from him, face blotchy and eyes red and swollen. Jaskier smoothed her wild hair back from her face and got up. He dipped his handkerchief in the pitcher of water and returned to wipe her face and press the cool, damp cloth against her eyes to soothe the irritation. “A little better?” he asked.

She nodded, looking faintly embarrassed. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have –“

“None of that, sweetie. You never have to apologize for what you feel. Now, what was it you were asking me when you got here?”

“I – oh! Will you come down to dinner? I think the others are waiting. I know Geralt was hungry, he had to fight _three other witchers_ today. Vesemir said something about having them knock some sense into him.”

“That seems a bit harsh to me, but he’s the teacher. Let’s go see what’s for dinner, shall we?” He presented his arm properly and she took it automatically. As they walked down the stairs, she managed to resume her bright chatter, speaking about the keep and the fighting she had begun to learn. They entered the kitchen to find all five witchers already there and already looking at them. Mostly at him, actually, and Jaskier found that he couldn’t hold any of their gazes. He had no wish to see the impatience or contempt that would undoubtedly be there, and so focused utterly on the girl at his side. He sat where she tugged him down to sit and ate what was put in front of him, all the while listening and responding to her chatter.

“And Vesemir says I am to learn all about monsters and how to kill them! But I must begin in the library,” she clarified with a wrinkled nose.

“Of course you must. That is what libraries are for, sweetie. It would not be fun to learn the difference between a ghoul and an alghoul only when finding yourself facing the latter when you had expected the former.” He tapped her nose with a smile. She laughed up at him.

“Speaking of which,” Vesemir rumbled. “If you have finished, it’s time to begin those studies.”

Ciri made a face but stood up willingly enough. “Alright, Vesemir. Jaskier, will you maybe play for me later? Before bed?”

Jaskier hesitated a moment, but surely the witchers would not begrudge the girl such a request. Perhaps just a few minutes, a few lullabies, to ease her into sleep. “If you wish,” he agreed. She brightened and waved and followed Vesemir out of the kitchen.

Jaskier felt very small, and very alone, and very uneasy all of a sudden. And immediately a hot wash of shame poured over him. How pathetic could he be, hiding behind a traumatized girl for his own comfort? Without looking at any of the men still remaining, he rose and began to gather the used dishes. Geralt caught at his hand when he reached for his. Jaskier froze. “What?”

“What are you doing, Jaskier?”

“…washing the dishes? There’s little enough I can do to earn my keep, but I can do that.”

“I brought you here for your safety, Jaskier. You don’t need to earn your keep, only –“

“Keep out of the way, yes. I know, Geralt, and I promise I shall. But it seems unbearably rude to lurk about, eating food we all know I could not help provide, and do _nothing_ in return. I’ve little enough to offer, but I can do this much.” He felt the hot flush of humiliation staining his cheeks and hoped that the burn from the cold had not faded enough to make it visible. He didn’t know why Geralt was making him admit to this in front of the others, unless he wanted them to hear for themselves his promise to stay out of their way.

Geralt growled a little, deep in his chest, the way he did when he was really angry over something. Jaskier couldn’t suppress the tiny flinch. That growl had not been directed at him before, and he was very much afraid of what words would follow. Was he now to hear his litany of fuck ups? Surely even longer after his dismal performance on the trail up the mountain.

Instead, Geralt released his hold so that Jaskier could finish his self imposed task of doing the dishes. The other witchers actually murmured thanks as he gathered theirs, and Jaskier nodded politely in response. He had to fight the constant urge to hunch his shoulders defensively as he scrubbed the bowls and spoons clean, and it felt like escape when he finished drying the last one and was able to leave with a murmured good night as he made it to the door.

He retreated to his room to wait for Ciri’s book lesson to be finished for the night. She tapped hopefully on his door, wearing some witcher’s old shirt as a nightdress, combined with a pair of wool leggings that were absurdly too big on her and rolled gods knew how many times so that she would not trip on them. Jaskier followed her to her room and found it just as barren as the one he slept in. But again, he did not know if that was because all the rooms were so cheerless, or if it was because it had been unused until their arrival. Ciri clambered into the huge bed and stared expectantly at him until he sat on the end and began to play. He knew hundreds of lullabies, in several different languages, and while she was no infant to be soothed, thought they were still a good choice. The melodies were sweet, meant to be played softly, and the words invariably loving. Hopefully, as her eyes grew heavy, they would help her to have pleasant dreams. When she seemed on the verge of sleep, he let the last song trail away into silence and then stood. “Thank you,” she mumbled at him.

“You’re most welcome, sweetie. Rest well,” he whispered. He eased out of her room and shut the door gently and escaped down the hall to his room without encountering any of the witchers.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter, we get to find out why Jaskier is as bad off as he is! Sorry for the long dry spell, between work and a few other things, writing slowed down for a while.

His sleep was a little more fitful that night, and he awoke much earlier in the day than he had the day before. Cautious, he eased out into the hallway and made his way to a window that would face the training yard. When he spotted all the witchers and Ciri out practicing already, he relaxed enough to head down to the kitchen. He found an apple that would do for his breakfast and then slipped away again to resume exploring.

He finally found a room that might do to help him stay out of the way in one of the towers. He wasn’t sure what it had been used for, as it had almost no furniture, save for a single lightly padded bench beneath a narrow window. The dust was thick and swirled through the air when he opened the ancient shutters, making him sneeze. The cloudy glass would help muffle the sound of the lute, hopefully by enough to not bother anyone, and the entire tower had been dusty enough to indicate it wasn’t routinely used. It would be cold, unless he hauled up firewood, but he also didn’t know if the chimney was clear enough for a fire to burn safely. And besides, he doubted they had expected to have to heat two additional bedrooms for the winter, much less a disused tower room. But there were plenty of blankets on his bed, and even just one of the furs would keep him warm enough during the daylight hours. A bucket of water and some rags to clean away the worst of the dust, and he’d be fine.

Jaskier set to with a will, a tiny furl of hope that he would survive the winter without driving any of the witchers to the edge fueling his work. After a couple hours, he had the place cleaned up nicely, and had installed one of the larger furs on the bench. When he returned again with his lute and songbook, wrapped the fur over his shoulders and along his arms, he relaxed for the first time in days. Possibly weeks. He opened his songbook to his latest effort and lost himself in composition.

The fire red of the setting sun drew him out of the work. No doubt whatever training Ciri was doing would be coming to an end, and dinner would be served soon. It was probably best he went back down to his room if she wished to find him for supper again. He wasn’t looking forward to another uncomfortable meal, but until the princess grew bored of his conversation, it was best to keep himself available to her. Geralt would very much not appreciate him upsetting his child.

Sure enough, he had barely gotten his lute put away when there was a bright tapping at his door. He opened it to see Ciri, cheeks red from cold and exertion, smiling at him. “We missed you at lunch! Where were you?”

“Exploring the castle. Well, the rooms with open doors, at least.”

“What did you find?”

“A lot of dust!” She laughed and began talking about her day as she firmly took his arm to bring him down to dinner. It was another uncomfortable meal followed by an even more uncomfortable few minutes while he cleaned all the dishes, although thankfully Geralt didn’t make him repeat his vow to behave again. After he played Ciri to sleep, he went back to his room and slept.

The pattern repeated over the next few days, with no one mentioning his playing – either alone in the tower room, or for Ciri at night. Jaskier really started to think he would manage. He would manage an entire season in the same place as other people, and he wouldn’t piss any of them off. When spring arrived, he’d be able to leave and for once, perhaps, he wouldn’t leave behind people breathing enormous sighs of relief to see the back of him. They wouldn’t _miss_ him, of course, but at least they wouldn’t be cursing his name.

That hope popped like a soap bubble after almost two full weeks. He was ensconced in the little tower room, hunched over his lute and working through a tricky bit of chording he hoped to include in his next song, when the door opened. He jumped hard enough that he almost dropped his lute and clutched it to his chest defensively as he stared in shock at Eskel. “Uh, hi? I’m sorry, shit, was the music bothering you? I tried to find somewhere to practice where the sound wouldn’t carry, I thought with the door, and the distance, this room would work, but of course sound can travel funny in old castles like this, I’ll just –“

“Breathe, bard, good lord!” Eskel laughed and held up both hands. His amber gaze was kind as he stepped into the room and looked around. “I don’t remember this room being so clean, last time I was in it. That was thirty years gone, mind, and I can’t imagine the dust got less.”

“It made me sneeze, so I cleaned it. I washed and dried the rags and put them away again.”

“Why didn’t you light a fire?”

Jaskier shrugged and resettled the fur. “I wasn’t sure the chimney was open. Besides, you’re already heating two more rooms than you all expected, I didn’t want to waste the firewood.”

“Keeping you from catching cold wouldn’t be a waste,” Eskel said. Jaskier just blinked at him. “Why so far away to practice? Are you one who can’t let anyone hear his compositions until they’ve been perfected?”

“No,” Jaskier said carefully. “No, it’s just – it’s been pointed out that my music…isn’t to everyone’s liking. Drunks in a tavern are usually not discriminating, but I have not noticed an excessive consumption of ale here.”

“If you say so. I’ve heard you play for the princess at night, it all sounds good to me.”

“Old lullabies. I’ve yet to compose any lullabies, so none of those are mine. She seems to enjoy them, although I’m sure she’ll grow tired of them soon enough.”

“Perhaps. From what I can tell, I wouldn’t expect that any time soon.”

Jaskier shrugged. “She’s been through a lot. I will play as often as she wants me to play – unless it’s getting bothersome for everyone? I’m sure we can find somewhere else to play, and she can go to bed after.”

“No no, by all means, keep singing her to sleep. I think it helps her rest better.”

“I hope so. Um, so should I find another room to practice in, or would it be best to stop entirely? I don’t want to be a bother.”

“If this room works for you, by all means, keep using it. We haven’t heard a thing. I was simply curious as to where you got to during the day. We never see you for breakfast or lunch.”

“I didn’t mean to be rude, I’m sorry.”

Eskel fixed that kind gaze on him, pinning him in place. “You have not been rude, Jaskier. Not even close. As I said, I was just curious. And a little worried. You seem unhappy, here. And I don’t believe Geralt gave you much of a choice when he dragged you up here.”

“I don’t mean to seem sullen,” Jaskier said, appalled. Even staying out of the way he had managed to give offense! “I’m very grateful that you’ve all let me stay. I just didn’t want to intrude more than I already have by just being here.” He stopped when Eskel held up a hand.

The witcher walked over to him and squatted, easily resting on his haunches. It put them at eye level. “Jaskier, you have been neither rude nor sullen. No one is angry or upset with you. Kaer Morhen is a refuge. It has been some time since we have seen a human here, and truthfully, Ciri has been a breath of fresh air. I am just worried that _you_ are unhappy.” Jaskier could only blink at him. Manners dictated that he say he was having a perfectly lovely time, but witchers could tell when you lied. But he couldn’t very well say ‘actually, I hate it here, I hate knowing I’m stuck in a castle with five people who already can’t stand me and the one who can is a child, ta very much’. Eskel sighed heavily and Jaskier flinched. “There! That right there – Jaskier, are you afraid of us?”

“What? No!” Appalled, Jaskier started to reach out a reassuring hand. He remembered himself at the last minute and pulled it back. “No, I know none of you would ever raise a hand to me.”

“And yet, at the slightest sign of anything that could be interpreted as unhappy, you flinch. The moment Ciri is out of the room, you smell like anxiety. What have we done to make you worried to be alone with us?”

“Nothing, I swear, I just…I just.” Jaskier squeezed his eyes shut for a moment and then sagged. That familiar humiliated feeling crept back, staining his skin and probably his scent. “Look,” he whispered. “I know Geralt has spoken to all of you about me in the past, Vesemir mentioned it the night we arrived. I know you know how impossible I am. How I never shut up, I’m constantly playing, and getting into messes, and causing problems for people around me. Most people I meet, I at least have a grace period before they figure out how annoying I am. I’m the sort best taken in small doses, _I get that_. But it still isn’t pleasant to hear out loud. It’s one thing to know it, it’s another to have to hear it over and over again, because I have an unfortunately excellent memory. It is not violence I worry about. I’m annoying, and have a tendency to ruin people’s lives entirely by accident, but I’m no monster. I don’t intentionally harm anyone, so no witcher is going to raise a hand – or weapon – against me. I’m sorry I made you all think I feared that.”

Eskel blinked at him. “You…actually just. No, you know what? Just no, Jaskier. I’m guessing at what you think Geralt has told us over the years, but I can assure you, it’s nothing like that. He’s mentioned your energy, your enthusiasm, and your utter fearlessness.”

Jaskier gazed at him doubtfully. Geralt used to bitch to him, right to his face, about his, well, everything. It didn’t make sense that what he had told his brothers was so vague and easily interpreted as complimentary. He looked again at the kind gaze boring into him, and then it made sense. Eskel was being kind – he hadn’t had the years that Geralt did to grow tired of Jaskier, for kindness and pity to run out. It was extremely kind of him, giving him the benefit of the doubt, ignoring everything Geralt had said over the years. “Thank you, I do appreciate that,” he said sincerely. “You’re very kind. I assure you, it’s not necessary. It took a while, but I have come to accept the way things are. I get by with traveling a lot, moving on before I can annoy anyone too badly, and truly, I generally manage to enjoy myself. I’m sorry I made you all think I was unhappy, I swear I **am** grateful for everything.”

“Stop, please, by the gods just stop.” Eskel ran a hand through his hair. “How do you do that? How do you take everything you hear and come out the other side with entirely the wrong idea? It isn’t _kindness_ to tell you that we have not heard bad things about you over the years. It’s the truth! Why the hell would I bother to lie? And honestly, tell me, whose life have you ruined, hmm?”

“Well, Geralt’s for one! He’s made that very clear. Not that I _meant_ to, and if I could fix any of it I _would_ , but I don’t think it’s possible to go back in time and -“

“How did you ruin his life?”

“Well, I rather bullied him and made him feel obliged to play bodyguard for me – protecting me from my own poor decisions – at the betrothal feast for Pavetta of Cintra. Geralt never wanted a Child Surprise, and he wouldn’t have even been there if not for me. And then the djinn! I just had to poke at him and play around with that stupid jar, and he only met Yennefer because he was trying to save my life when a wish went bad and made a giant magical tumor grow. If I had just let him be, he would have gotten his sleep and would never have made the wish that bound his fate with Yennefer’s, and maybe she wouldn’t have left him all in a huff and broken his heart! And that’s just the big stuff,” Jaskier added. “He can’t stand my music, but I was too stupid to realize he was serious all those times he told me to stop. I thought it was just – just _teasing_ , the way fri – people do. I followed him around all the time, constantly hounding him and driving him nuts and taking advantage of the way he was too kind to just tell me to fuck off the way other people do. I made the man’s life a misery for the better part of twenty years, Eskel, I’d say that’s pretty well and truly ruined!”

“So it’s your fault that Geralt invoked the Law of Surprise for a lark, and your fault he made a particular wish rather than literally any other wish that would have left the sorceress alive and she found out.” Eskel nodded. “Right. Except, you know, for how that’s not your fault. You aren’t responsible for the words that come out of his mouth, he’s a grown ass man who should have known better on all counts. And as for years of ‘hounding’ him, I assume these were all the years you shared the road with him, creating songs that changed public perception of him so that now he’s the White Wolf and not the Butcher, so that he doesn’t get stoned out of towns and villages almost ever any more, nor stiffed on payment for contracts fulfilled anymore. The years of you willingly sharing rooms and meals and the coin you earned so that he could sleep under a roof when things were lean. The years where Geralt, one of the most withdrawn sonofabitches I’ve ever known, didn’t tell you straight out that he disliked you and wanted to be left alone. Jaskier, please tell me you can see how that doesn’t make sense.”

“Changing the phrasing doesn’t change reality. Perhaps he didn’t tell all of you much about me, that still doesn’t mean I am not exactly as I know myself to be. My own parents did not like me and were unbearably relieved when I left for Oxenfurt. I don’t know why I ever thought anyone else really would when _they_ didn’t, but I finally got the message. I do not inflict myself on anyone for longer than a week, and everyone is happier for it.” Jaskier straightened on his seat and drew the fur more tightly around himself. “I apologize again that my absence from meals has given offense. If you wish me to attend, I will certainly do so, for as long as you wish me to. I only meant to keep the peace as best I could.”

“No,” Eskel said, finally standing back up. “If you would not be comfortable, please do not feel obliged to join us. Do not mistake me, I would enjoy it, as I would enjoy the chance to know you better, but I think you are not in a place where you would be comfortable with that. I will get back to training. I apologize for interrupting you.” He nodded his head once, politely, then turned and left.

Jaskier sagged back against the window for a few minutes. That had been…draining. And now he was left not knowing what to do. Certainly Eskel would not have mentioned his absence at other meals unless it was bothersome, but there was also no denying that he would be uncomfortable the entire time, and they would all be able to smell it. Literally smelling someone’s unease had to be off putting, particularly when one wanted to eat. And having been reminded of that little fact of witcher senses, dinner alone would be bad enough! Perhaps if he arrived at the end of the meal, when Ciri and Vesemir were trotting off for evening lessons, did the dishes first before taking a bowl or plate elsewhere….

It could work. Ciri would no doubt be able to find him waiting before bedtime, and she could tell him about her day then, rather than at the meal.

He would have to stop practicing in the room of course. As polite as Eskel had been, he could not see that he would bother to mention Jaskier using the room at all if it weren’t an issue. None of the other rooms he’d found had been any better – indeed, for his purposes, they were all worse, since others still had furniture in them, if dust covered, and he couldn’t see that they’d want him getting his smell in more furniture to linger for who knew how long. His nightly playing for Ciri would have to suffice, at least until she grew tired of it. Then, well, then he would just have to make do with a bit of humming and composing until winter ended and he could get away and lose himself in the far north.


	6. Chapter 6

Geralt looked up from his plate as Eskel strode into the kitchen where they were all eating yet another bard-less lunch. He caught the hint of Jaskier’s humiliated/shamed scent that clung to his brother right before his brother’s fist made violent contact with his jaw. It was a solid punch. Had it connected with anyone but a witcher, it would have broken the recipient’s jaw. Geralt was just knocked to the floor and was able to push himself back up while rubbing the bruise. “Okay,” he agreed. “Probably fair. But what have I done now?”

“You’re a fucking asshole, that’s what! Look me in the eye, Geralt, and tell me you didn’t blame that man for decisions that **you** made whose outcomes you weren’t happy about.”

Geralt raised an eyebrow. “I can’t, and you know it! I already said as much, didn’t I? I take it you spoke with him.”

“Yes I fucking did! I tracked him to the gods damned tower room on the north side. He’s been holing up in there probably every day since you got here. He cleaned it up and had to justify it by assuring me he had washed and dried and returned the rags he used! He refused to bring up firewood, because he didn’t want us to ‘waste firewood when we’re already heating two extra rooms’. There wasn’t a single gods damned thing I could say to him that he didn’t take as some kind of criticism, Geralt, and he’s convinced that he is inherently unlikable and has thoroughly ruined your life because he happened to be present at events where you made choices you regretted.”

“What would you have me do?” Geralt demanded. “I have tried to apologize, and he’s flat out told me he didn’t want to talk about it, that an apology wouldn’t make anything better. He seems to want to be left alone, and I have done so!”

“He said those words – those words _exactly_?” Eskel asked.

“What – well, no. As I recall, I tried to get him to let me apologize, and he said ‘But I don’t want to hear it. Do you understand? It wouldn’t change things. After so long, I don’t think anything could.’” Geralt shot a pained look at Ciri, who was watching it all with wide eyes. None of this was going to inspire a great deal of trust or faith from her.

“And he knew you were trying to apologize, you were able to get that word out?”

Geralt opened his mouth to confirm and then snapped it shut again. “Actually no. No, I wasn’t, he interrupted me each time I tried before I could say as much.”

Vesemir cleared his throat. “If you two are done, now that you’ve gotten this far, I think it’s time I pointed out what you’ve all missed.” Geralt turned towards him, eyebrows up. He rarely missed much, but the severe look from his mentor said he had this time – something _big_. “Every word said to him is criticism. Every action a rebuke. Every memory is viewed through a new lens that paints him in a poor light. Everything he does or says falls short. Mistakes that are in no way his fault somehow actually are. Basically, he is utterly lacking in every respect, and he’s just waiting to tip one of us – probably Geralt – over the edge.”

“Basically,” Eskel confirmed. “He isn’t worried about physical harm, he was clear and honest on that front. He’s just very aware of his faults and dreads having to hear someone else spell them out.”

“But why?” Ciri burst out. “He’s kind, and funny, and he saved Geralt and me both, and I don’t even know if we would have made it to the trail before the storms closed it, and even if we did, I couldn’t have helped lead the horses the way he did, but he acted like the storm was his fault, and my boots, and –“

Vesemir held up a hand, stopping the flood of words. “It’s subtle enough that I suppose it’s not too surprising none of you picked up on it. I wasn’t sure myself at first, but I am now. He’s under a curse. I’ve seen it before, although not since I was young.”

Geralt scowled. “What? My medallion didn’t so much as twitch, not even once.”

“It did, but it was likely faint enough that you didn’t notice, as distracted as you were. You’ve never done well when you felt guilty,” he added pointedly. “Somewhere, someone decided they didn’t want him to be happy, and had the power to back it up. The curse is insidious. It preys upon even the slightest hint of self-doubt, insecurity, and magnifies it exponentially. The longer it’s able to work, the more severe the effects. The more important a person is to the victim, the more severe the reaction to any rebuke. At this point, you could fall to your knees and proclaim him the most perfect person to ever have lived, and he would find a way to make it either an insult or rebuke.” Vesemir scratched at his stubble thoughtfully. “His reaction to everything Geralt related is pretty extreme, so I’d say your opinion of him matters to that boy more than anyone else’s. We’re all tied to you directly, so our reactions and opinions are almost as important, so his reactions to anything we say or do are nearly as extreme. Ciri doesn’t seem to inspire the same level, though. But then, children are generally less threatening and more accepting.”

Geralt took a breath and let it out, taking it all in. It made a peculiar sort of sense. Jaskier had been his longest, steadiest relationship outside of other witchers. And he knew he had been the same for the bard. Though they had often traveled separately, there hadn’t been a single year since they met that they didn’t spend at least a few weeks together, and as more years went by, those weeks were more like months. Right up until the dragon hunt. He had more than half expected to find Jaskier waiting somewhere along the path back down the mountain, or at least with Roach, ready to give him an earful for the bullshit he’d spewed out. He hadn’t been, though. He had vanished instead, and Geralt hadn’t seen hide nor hair of him since, not until the brave fool got himself captured in order to save him.

A very sneaking, unwelcome suspicion began to form in his gut, but he didn’t want to voice it. Not where Ciri could hear. Not when the girl’d had visions of both him and Yennefer, visions strong enough that she’d known the sorceress’s name. He hadn’t been able to find out anything about her fate after the battle at Sodden, but he knew in his gut, by the unwise wish that bound them, that Yennefer wasn’t dead. Their paths would cross, and she would teach Ciri the control and use of her extraordinary powers.

Possibly not until after he’d punched her, though. If what he suspected was right, she was owed that much.

“Alright. So he’s cursed. Is there a way to break it?” he finally said.

Vesemir shrugged. “Another sorcerer could do it, certainly. I’m not sure we’ve time to wait for winter to pass and make travel possible again to try to find one, though. He’s barely eating as it is. He’s isolating himself as much as he can, save for what Ciri can convince him to do. If he’s taken to spending all his time in the unused portions of the keep, it won’t be long before his strength depletes and he gets sick. Which he won’t tell any of us about, naturally, so that we aren’t bothered. Convincing him to fight against the curse could work, but from the sounds of it, it’s been working away at him for quite some time. Anything we try to convince him of will just be twisted around in his mind.”

Eskel nodded. “He thought I was just taking pity on him, being kind to him, and was practically apologizing for breathing!”

“Well, you _are_ the nice one,” Lambert pointed out. “Now, if Geralt or I said anything to him….”

“It’s not like he knows you’re a dyed in the wool asshole,” Eskel shot back. “And we’ve all seen how he reacts to Geralt. He shrinks from the slightest bit of attention from him.”

“So we need a mage to come here, in the dead of winter, to break a curse that’s been eating away at his mind for who knows how long,” Vesemir summed up. “And most of the ones we know either died at Sodden or, worse, decided to keep out of it, which doesn’t bode well if they find out that the princess is here.”

“Would Yennefer help?” Ciri asked, looking hopefully at Geralt.

He shook his head immediately. “I doubt it, if we could even figure out where she went after Sodden. She and Jaskier did not get along well when their paths crossed.” He frowned then and looked at Vesemir. “I _do_ know another who might be willing to help. I had heard she was at Sodden as well, and her name was not on the list of the dead or missing, which suggests she might have survived and returned to her post. But do you really want to bring an outsider with clear ties to the Brotherhood here?”

“That depends. Do you want the bard to wither away until he dies of illness or throws himself off the tower in order to spare you any further trouble from his existence?”

“Of course not! But this is not just my home,” Geralt reminded him. It was agony to point it out. If there were a way to break the curse that was crippling his friend, his best and maybe only friend, he wanted to grab on with both hands. But while he’d be willing to seek out Triss on his own, or even take Jaskier right to her, he couldn’t say with any certainty that she would keep any secrets she discovered about Kaer Morhen to herself. He didn’t have the same doubts about Jaskier, or Ciri, but. The Brotherhood did things for their own benefit. Mages attached to a ruler worked to benefit that ruler first, and the Brotherhood second. Loyalty to witchers was so far down the list of importance, he wasn’t sure they could technically be counted as even on it. “There was no risk bringing Ciri or Jaskier here. Neither would give up any witcher secrets to anyone, no more than would any of us. But just because she treated me well once, and battled at Sodden, does not mean that I can even begin to say the same for her. If we give her the way in, that’s something we can’t take back.”

“Who are you talking about?” Lambert questioned.

“Her name is Triss Merigold. She was…decent, before, during, and after the striga. She seems to have a penchant for healing as well.” He shrugged.

“It will have to do, unless anyone else knows a mage better?” Vesemir looked around at each of them in turn. “Alright. I will contact this Triss Merigold. If she is willing and able to help, I’ll tell her how to find the keep. In the meantime, Ciri, I would like you start seeking Jaskier out more often. Take food to him. He reacts to you the best of all of us, and it seems he’ll eat if only to please you. There’s no telling how long it will take until this sorceress is able to come, and we don’t need him getting sick.”

The girl nodded, a determined glint in her eyes. “I can do it. And I’ll keep snacks in my room for when he plays me to sleep.”

“Good girl.” Vesemir stood up, apparently about to go try contacting Triss right then and there.

Geralt cleared his throat. “How, exactly, do you plan to get in touch with her?”

Vesemir scowled at him. “I have my ways, boy. Maybe, if you live half as long as I have, I’ll consider telling you some of them.” He stomped out. He didn’t mutter, but Geralt had the distinct impression that he wanted to.

“What I don’t get,” Ciri asked when he’d gone, “is why he helped me, if he thinks you hate him. Why he agreed to come, and helped so much on the way. If I thought someone hated me, I don’t think I would want to help them or be near them.”

Geralt scrubbed at his face. “Jaskier is…rather hard to describe. When he isn’t cursed, he’s stubborn, and noisy, and utterly infuriating. I’ve saved him from cuckolded spouses more than once. But he’s also one of the most generous people I have ever met. He can’t really fight for shit, but he has punched more people than I care to count for insulting witchers in general and me in particular. He’s helped me stitch up wounds and scolded me all the while for not being fast enough to avoid getting them. He _hates_ being dirty, but he will spend as long as it takes to get blood and guts out of my hair when I probably would have just gone for a dunk in the river and let whatever was left dry and flake out over time.” He shrugged. “He’s…a good man,” he finished. “He could never have walked away and left you on your own without trying to help. And I really doubt that if he’d heard I had been caught that he would have left me to it without trying to help, even without you as a factor.”

“But why come?”

“If you’ll recall, he didn’t want to. He only came because you asked, so you wouldn’t worry about him.”

“That’s true,” she said, deflating a little. Her chin went up again. “Well then, if he’ll do what I ask, then I’ll just make sure I ask him to eat a lot.” She jumped up and started gathering food on a new plate, until it was piled high. “How do I get to the tower?” she demanded imperiously, staring Eskel straight in the eye.

His eyebrows went up, but he gave her precise directions. They all watched her scamper off.

“How the fuck do you get yourself in these situations?” Lambert wondered.

“I have no fucking idea.”


	7. Chapter 7

Ciri wasn’t able to track Jaskier down. She found him about an hour later, plate still covered with food, to report that Jaskier was not in the tower, nor his own room, and she hadn’t been able to find him. He was able to cheer her with the reminder that he would surely come to dinner, and promised to help track him down the following day for her, no matter where he’d found to hide.

Except that Jaskier didn’t actually show up for dinner. He didn’t appear until the time when Vesemir had been pulling Ciri to the library for evening lessons, and when he did slink in, he refused to meet even her gaze. He just mumbled some vague excuse about having lost track of time and went straight into washing everyone’s plates. When he finished that chore, he turned to slink out without eating anything himself. Geralt could only sit there and watch, fists clenched, as the shadow that had been his friend behaved like a dog that had been beaten one too many times. If he said _anything_ , Jaskier would hear censor, and then that shame smell would get worse, and he wasn’t sure he could stand that again.

Ciri was still determined, though, undaunted by the lack of success so far. She scavenged the kitchen for bread and cold meat to hide away in her room, clearly not about to let Jaskier get out of his nightly playing for her, and not about to let him get away without eating when he did.

It was beyond appalling that he had to rely on a child to look after his friend, all because he’d been so shit at it himself and let him get cursed. They had spent enough time on the road that he should have picked up on the signs far sooner, and maybe they could have already gotten it fixed. Hell, he should have known something was wrong when Jaskier wasn’t waiting by Roach after the mountain mess, ready to scold and insult him until he apologized for being such a dick, and he should have tracked him down to find out why. Sure, he’d never been as nasty to Jaskier before as he had that day, and maybe his conclusion that he’d gone too far for Jaskier to be able to forgive wasn’t entirely out of the question, but still. The bard had never been one to keep his mouth shut when he was pissed. Any way he looked at it, Jaskier would have loitered near Roach, either to harass him into apologizing or to give him a final, well crafted barrage of insults before he left for good. He would have to make his long overdue apology really very good. Somehow. Which he _would_. He was quiet by nature, but he wasn’t stupid.

Oh, he was fucked.

The one piece of good news was that, by whatever means Vesemir had at his disposal, he had managed to speak with Triss, and she had agreed to come to Kaer Morhen to remove the curse. The flip side of that was that it was going to be a few days before she could make it. A few days more of Jaskier skulking around the keep, remarkably good, actually, at finding new places to hide that didn’t violate Vesemir’s order to not open closed doors, and reeking of guilt and shame and mortification for just, apparently, living. Ciri, by the second day of her ‘keep Jaskier fed by batting your eyes at him’ quest, actually got pretty good at finding him. Of course, with everything being equal, the flip side of _that_ was that she had to lay out exactly how much food she expected Jaskier to eat, or he would nibble at a piece of bread to be polite and leave the rest for her.

It all left Geralt twitchy and angry and growling at everyone but Ciri, until Vesemir ordered him out of the keep to hunt, and not return until he had at least two deer and a boar to put in the smokehouse. Geralt obeyed, mostly because he really needed to hit something, so stomping around the mountain looking for deer and boar was very likely to attract something that he _could_ hit. He spent three days trekking all over the mountain, managed to find himself a nice little workout, and then found the required two deer and a boar to bring back.

When he sought out the others after getting the carcasses hung in the smoke room and having a fast bath, he found Triss talking quietly with Vesemir in the library. They both looked up when he entered.

“Good, you’re back. Took you long enough,” Vesemir said brusquely.

Geralt ignored him. “Thank you for coming, Triss. What do you need in order to fix him?”

“Removing this type of curse is relatively easy, provided I have his agreement. That can be the tricky part. With the way the curse twists his thinking, simply telling him he’s cursed is going to make him want to keep it on, thinking he deserves it. He’ll decline because of that, and because he doesn’t want to cause trouble. If you can get him to agree to sit still and let me remove it, it shouldn’t take long. It’s nasty, but easily removed,” she explained in the calm, measured tone he recalled from the striga. She really was extremely unflappable, which Geralt appreciated.

He wasn’t thrilled with the obvious plan that came to mind. “I can get him to agree,” he said heavily. “And if I can’t, I’m sure Ciri can. It seems he’ll do anything she asks.”

“To avoid upsetting her, as upsetting her would make you angry. Track him down, please. I can’t afford to be away for long.”

“Fine.” He turned on his heel and left. He checked the room Jaskier had chosen (the furthest from his own, and closest to the privy – avoidance and self-punishment?) and when that proved empty, simply followed the strongest lingering scent in the hallway until he found Jaskier in one of the most run down sections of the keep, in a room where the window had been broken and boarded over, no furniture, and huddled inside one of the furs from his bed, scratching away in his songbook. He looked up when Geralt entered and his face immediately twisted itself into an expression of fear and he started babbling.

“Oh gods, am I not supposed to be in here? The door was open, I swear, and Vesemir said I could go in the rooms where the doors were open! I swear, I haven’t touched a single doorknob aside from the one on the bedroom I’m using, Geralt, I’m staying out of the way and look, I’m not even playing except when Ciri asks!”

Chest tight, he crossed the room to squat in front of his friend and caught at his defensively raised hands. They were freezing, the skin dry and splitting around his nails and knuckles. “Jaskier, I’m not angry with you. You’re allowed in this room or any other with an open door, just as Vesemir said. But there _is_ a problem I need your help with.”

“Mine? What could **I** possibly help you with?”

Geralt tried to pick his words carefully. “There is…a bit of magic on you. It isn’t dangerous, exactly, but if we leave it on you, it could cause a few problems in the future. Problems that might distress Ciri. There is an acquaintance of mine who can remove it, but her time is limited. Will you come and let her take it off of you?”

There was a flash of fear of a different sort on Jaskier’s face. “Who?” he demanded, forgetting to grovel for the moment.

“A sorceress named Triss Merigold. She’s normally attached to King Foltest’s court,” he explained patiently. He gave a little squeeze to the hand he held. “Will you come?” he repeated.

“If – if it’s not dangerous, and I just stay out of the way – and I _will_ , I swear, I can find somewhere around here that I won’t bother anyone! Then we don’t really need to bother her, do we? I’ll be gone when spring comes, and Ciri won’t know a thing to be upset by.”

Geralt immediately shook his head. “The problems will start before spring, and Triss has only limited time here to help. I shouldn’t like to tell her she came all this way for nothing, she might well never agree to help me with anything again in the future.”

Jaskier swallowed, eyes huge in his head. “O-okay. I don’t want to cause trouble, Geralt. Whatever you think best.”

“Thank you.” Geralt didn’t want to give him time to find another argument in favor of staying cursed and stood up, using his hold on Jaskier’s hand to pull him with. Jaskier followed obediently, one hand limp in Geralt’s, the other holding the fur closed around him. He kept his head down, guilt radiating off him, like a trainee who had fucked up and was dreading the punishment. It made him want to grind his teeth, because he just _knew_ Jaskier was blaming himself for something that wasn’t his fault. And likely blowing it even more out of proportion than just that.

Jaskier balked when they reached the library door. “Geralt, I _can’t_! Vesemir said –“

“He’s in there and he knows what we’re doing. You have permission for this, and I trust you won’t try to go back in afterwards. It’s fine, Jaskier.” From the look on his face, it was clear Jaskier didn’t believe him. And it was clear that he expected to get an earful from Vesemir when they walked inside, but he made no move to defend himself and blame Geralt for his presence there.

Vesemir pulled out a chair and pointed. “Sit there, bard.” Jaskier slunk over into the chair, and Geralt had seen men going to their execution who looked less afraid. “Did Geralt explain what was going to happen?”

Jaskier kept his head down and nodded. “Yes, sir. I have some kind of magic on me that could cause problems, so the lady has agreed to remove it.”

“Essentially, yes,” Triss said smoothly. “My name is Triss, it’s nice to meet you, Jaskier.”

“Likewise,” Jaskier mumbled automatically.

“Now, this shouldn’t hurt, but it’s likely to feel quite odd. Do you consent?”

Jaskier’s hands curled into fists on his thighs, but he nodded. “Of course. I don’t want to cause problems for anyone, I’m sorry you’re having to go through so much trouble. I have no idea where I picked up some random magic, truly, I’ve been working very hard to keep my head down for – for a long time now. I must have touched something without noticing, maybe, or annoyed a mage without meaning to.”

“That’s quite alright. Close your eyes, and I’ll begin,” Triss instructed. Jaskier squeezed his eyes shut, and he was so tense Geralt could almost feel the strain in his muscles without even touching him. He somehow managed to tense even further when Triss laid her fingers gently on his head. Her eyes closed, and his medallion began to vibrate against his chest as she began to work whatever magic she needed to in order to remove the curse. Jaskier jerked in his seat, hands spasming on his thighs. “Hold still, Jaskier,” she ordered. His hands flailed out and without thinking, Geralt leapt forward to grasp them, hoping to at least give him an anchor to hang onto. Jaskier’s fingers dug into his hands with surprising strength, enough to bruise even his skin. But there was no smell of pain rising from him, so whatever was happening wasn’t painful, as promised, but it was clearly distressing. And he could do nothing but kneel there and let Jaskier maul his hands.

It took several minutes, with Jaskier struggling not to writhe in his seat, before Jaskier slumped forward and Triss stepped back, both of them looking rather exhausted by the whole thing. Geralt caught him before he could slide out of his seat and hit the floor, and just held him as he shook with reaction. Triss shook her hands, like there was something unpleasant clinging to them. She frowned at Geralt. “Did you know it was Yennefer who cursed him?”

Geralt winced. “Not for sure, but. She was furious with me when last we parted. And Jaskier always annoyed her. I hadn’t seen him since that day, so I couldn’t be positive.”

“That suspicion might have helped to know. Yennefer is really very powerful. Aside from the curse, she blocked the entire memory of her encounter with Jaskier. I had to dig that memory out before he would truly relinquish his grip on the curse.”

“Gods damn it all anyway,” he muttered. He would have to deal with that later. “Jaskier? Are you alright?”

“I’m f-fine, sorry, just let me, I’ll get out of your hair in a sec,” the bard mumbled, still shaking. He started to struggle upright as Geralt turned a questioning glare on Triss.

“He’s been operating under the curse for years, Geralt. It twisted his thoughts into new patterns, created a new habit of self-blame. The curse is gone, but it may take time to break that habit. Be patient with him.” She smoothed her skirt and turned to Vesemir. “Have you further need of me?”

“No, mage, you have done enough for us here. The witchers of Kaer Morhen are in your debt.”

“I am doubly so,” Geralt told her. “Thank you for coming.” 

“Try to stay out of trouble for a while. Which may be difficult. Wherever she is, Yennefer felt that curse break,” she warned.

Geralt scowled. “Good. I hope it rebounded on her hard. She’s got a great deal to answer for, after this.”

“I wish you luck with that.” With a flick of her hand, a portal swirled into existence in the middle of the library. She stepped through and it vanished, leaving no trace that she had been there at all.

“I like her,” Vesemir observed. “She seems fairly straightforward.”

“She is.” Geralt wasn’t paying much attention to the older witcher, however. The shaking wasn’t letting up, and Jaskier felt chilled and clammy. “Jask, I need you to take some deep breaths for me, alright? You’re in shock.” He pressed one of the bard’s hands to his chest to demonstrate, inhaling deep and slow, and exhaling until Jaskier started to copy him. “Better,” he approved as the shaking finally started to ease off. “How do you feel?”

“Confused.” Jaskier shook his head and tried to shift back. Geralt wouldn’t let him, and the smell of anxiety and guilt rose up again, followed swiftly by confusion and anger. “I don’t – what the fuck, Geralt? What is wrong with my head? I remember – but it’s all like a dream, a really long, very strange dream, like someone slipped a fun herb into my wine and it went wrong. Very very wrong. I don’t –“

“Hush, Jask. Give it some time. Come on, up you get. You need rest, I think.” Jaskier wore the face of a lost, confused child, and obediently rose as Geralt urged him to his feet. With a nod to Vesemir, he led the bard out of the library and back to his room. Maybe now he would be able to convince the man to move closer to everyone else and away from the privy.

Jaskier stood in the middle of the room, uncertain, still huddled beneath the fur. Geralt shook his head at the embers of the pitifully small fire in the hearth and bent to build it up to something proper, a fire that would heat the room right rather than simply keeping the worst of the cold at bay. When it was roaring, he turned and guided Jaskier into the deep armchair nearest the hearth. Jaskier stared at the fire as though hypnotized for almost a full hour. The silence was a little unnerving, but Geralt could hardly begrudge him the time to try to order his muddled thoughts. When he finally opened his mouth to speak, Geralt almost cheered.

“Geralt, I want never to see Yennefer again,” Jaskier began slowly. “I’m aware I probably had _some_ kind of curse coming, for what I said, but what she did was quite far over the top.”

“Jaskier, you have said much to and about her over the years. None of which deserves a curse of any kind.”

Jaskier looked up at him with a crooked sort of smile. “You didn’t hear what I said to her on the mountain. That mess was…fucked up, all the way around.”

Geralt clenched his hands into fists. “Am I allowed to apologize, now?”

Jaskier’s brow creases with renewed confusion. “When did I ever tell you that you couldn’t?”

“The farmhouse. I tried more than once, but you didn’t want to hear it.”

Jaskier immediately shook his head. “You never apologized, you were going to tell me all the ways I fucked up,” he said, sounding sure. Then his face creased again. “Weren’t you?” he asked, very much not sure.

“No,” Geralt said gently. “I wanted to apologize. It doesn’t matter how angry I was over Yennefer, I should not have said what I did to you. You didn’t deserve that, and I’m sorry.” Jaskier started to blink rapidly and Geralt was horrified to realize there were tears in his eyes. “Fuck, what? Jaskier, what did I – did I do it wrong? I’m not used to apologizing, I wasn’t trying to hurt your feelings!”

“Stop, stop, I’m okay, just.” He gestured at his head. “I’m just still all mixed up. Part of me wants to make you say that again, just so you have to make that constipated look, and the rest is falling all over itself saying how everything was my fault and I’m worthless and should just leave when no one’s looking.”

“Don’t do that!” Geralt said, alarmed. “You’d never make it down the mountain. If the weather didn’t kill you, the monsters would!” The exasperated look he got was reassuring in its familiarity.

“I’m not stupid, Geralt, and Vesemir already told me I’d die if I left the keep. Just…fuck.” He squeezed his eyes shut and pinched the bridge of his nose. “I hate that crazy bitch. Remind me again why we ever had anything to do with her?”

“Giant djinn-made tumor growing in your throat ring a bell?” Granted, that had been Geralt’s fault. And it had been Geralt’s fault every time after that, too. The barest hint of Yennefer on the wind and he’d go hurtling straight at her, Jaskier dragging his feet in his wake, warning him, uselessly, about continuing to associate with her. He’d never listened, though.

But Jaskier winced and shrank in on himself, tugging the fur protectively around him. “Right, yeah. Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize – why are you apologizing? That wasn’t your fault, it was mine.”

“No, it wasn’t. I’m the one that decided to play tug of war with a magical object! I knew you were tired and pissy and touchy about what happened in Cintra and I had to go poking at you anyway. It was also the djinn’s fault, for being a giant dick and deciding that giving me a massive tumor would somehow give you peace. At worst, you can be blamed for leaving it so open ended a wish.”

Geralt snapped his mouth shut. That had been a remarkably fair assessment of the whole mess. Far more fair than he deserved, really. “I still kept chasing after her, after that.”

“You did, and _that_ I am rather peeved over. You ignored my every warning to keep away from her, Geralt. And then you blamed me when it blew up in your face. Never mind all the times I picked your giant ass up after she’d played with your head and left you, time and time again. Never mind the _gallons_ of booze I funded down your throat for you to drown your misery. I appreciate the apology, I do. But do you know what the last two years spent under that curse cost me?” Geralt shook his head, dreading the answer. “I am _tired_ , Geralt. Tired, because I couldn’t make myself stay more than a handful of days in any one place. Just when word would spread, and the crowds get good, I would leave. My purse has not been properly full for two years. And I still gave away to others most of what I did manage to earn, because they were all more deserving of food in their bellies than I was. I sold my clothes, save the boots and coat, and changed them out for the rough, drab things I have now. No one wants a drab bard, Geralt. And I did it because I didn’t deserve nice things, now, did I? I slept rough far more often than not, even in winter, because I didn’t deserve a nice wintering over spot. Who would want me around for that long? I almost died last winter, of a lung infection, and had I not been found on the side of the road, that is where I would have stayed until scavengers got me. I know you never _said_ , but I thought – wasn’t I your friend? I can’t even really tell right now, my head is so fucked up. I can remember being so sure that we were friends, but I can also remember being utterly, completely certain, that all our time together could be chalked up to nothing but pity on your part that finally ran out.” Jaskier swallowed, throat clicking dryly, loudly in the still room. “I don’t know which is real. So I _hate_ her, and I don’t understand, I’m not sure I ever will, why you ever insisted on chasing after her. Why you had to run into that house in Rinde and save her power-crazed if delectable ass instead of just leaving with me as I asked.”

“I-I owed her. She saved you,” Geralt reminded him.

“You had already paid her. Remember? Lilacs and gooseberries and you her perfect marionette.”

Geralt winced at the reminder. “That’s true. It just seemed.” He stopped and struggled to find the words. “I didn’t feel like I had much of a choice. If I could, I _had_ to save her. For saving you, yes, but even beyond that.”

“Destiny,” Jaskier suggested, half mocking, half serious.

Geralt winced again. “I’m starting to wonder at destiny. If it’s more real than I want to believe. I was given a…prophecy, of a sort. A long time ago. And Ciri is the result, prophecy made reality.”

“Maybe so. You’re going to find Yennefer, so she can teach Ciri, aren’t you?”

“I – that was the plan. Before.”

“And now?”

“And now I don’t know! Ciri had a vision, not just of me, but Yennefer too. Do I have a choice in this? Ciri is powerful, more powerful, I think, than anyone has ever been. She needs a teacher who is at least almost as strong as she is, and Yennefer is the only one I know of. But after what she did to you?” He opened his hands helplessly. “I don’t know. I don’t know if I have a choice, or what the right one is if I do.”

“You have to do what is right for Ciri, of course.” Jaskier straightened in his seat, then, gaze and jaw firm. “Just know that if you seek her out, you won’t see me again. Because if I do, I think I might really try to kill her.” He sagged almost instantly, looking rueful. “Not, I’m sure, that my presence is going to be a deciding factor for you on that. I’m not _daft_. Not entirely. I’m not saying that to influence you, it’s not some kind of ultimatum. Just – a head’s up, I suppose, and a request. Don’t bring her here before I am able to leave. Please. Give me that much grace?”

Geralt couldn’t take hearing that tone, that rueful, begging tone that nonetheless expected rejection. It wasn’t entirely the lingering effects of the curse. He had _never_ taken Jaskier’s feelings into account when Yennefer was in the mix. Jaskier had plenty of reason to expect his wish to be ignore. And Geralt was done doing that.

He dropped to his knees by the bard’s chair and laid a hand on his knee. “What you said earlier, about not being sure we were even friends,” he began. His fingers tightened when Jaskier shrank back, that shame/guilt scent starting to rise up again. “We were. No one has ever been my friend before. I know I was pretty shit at it. But you _were_ my friend. Still are, if you want to be. I won’t invite Yennefer here. I’m not ready to deal with her after this myself – she had _no right_ , and I don’t want her around Ciri. It might come down to it, someday, but only if I can’t help it.”

“Thank you, for that. And thank you for getting Triss here to remove the curse. I’m not sure how much longer I would have lasted under it. It – I – Eskel tried to be friendly, the other day, and I thought I had fucked up so badly. And then Ciri kept tracking me down, and that was – I was terrified of upsetting her, because that would upset _you_ , and I really couldn’t take another – like from the mountain, I couldn’t take that again.” He met Geralt’s eyes, gaze raw and wounded and Geralt want to just – but Jaskier wasn’t quite done. “I wasn’t far from taking a nice long walk on the mountainside, and fuck taking any winter gear.” Geralt let out a harsh breath and yanked the other man forward into a crushing hug. Jaskier flailed for a moment before thankfully settling on hugging him back rather than shoving him away.

Geralt hung on for as long as he dared, which was as long as it took for Jaskier to start to lean away and let his arms fall. Not willing to hold him a second longer than he wanted to be held, Geralt leaned back too. “I am really fucking glad you found Ciri that day. It’s been…too quiet on the road these last couple of years.” It wasn’t quite what he wanted to say, not really, but Jaskier smiled anyway.

“Aww, you missed me!” Jaskier batted his eyes, clearly joking.

Geralt just nodded. “Yeah. Yeah I did.” His ready agreement seemed to throw the bard off a bit. “I think there is still a lot that we’ll have to talk about, but I don’t think now is the time. You look exhausted. When was the last time you ate?”

“About an hour before you tracked me down. Ciri cornered me and gave me these devastatingly effective puppy eyes and I ate every scrap.” He made a face. “Honestly, I’m a little nauseous. When she pulled that curse out of my head, it felt like a million slimy tentacles sliding around my brain.” He shuddered.

“Hm.” Geralt got smoothly to his feet. “Rest, Jaskier. And for fuck’s sake, tomorrow we’re moving you away from the privy! Worst room in the whole place,” he grumbled.

“I thought it would be far enough away from everyone that my noise wouldn’t bother any of you.” Jaskier got to his feet easily enough when Geralt tugged and offered him a crooked grin. “I’ve been scurrying around, trying to find the furthest, most sound proofed room in the place so I could play and not annoy you, and here you are, _missing_ the sound of me.”

“Don’t let it go to your head,” Geralt teased.

“Oh no, I’m never letting you forget this. You said it, you don’t get to take it back!” He hummed a brief snatch of a jaunty tune. “In fact, it may be my next ballad. All about the White Wolf pining for his dear bard. It will bring entire crowds to tears, Geralt – tears!”

Geralt made a pained noise, as he was meant to, but he was smiling. “I’m sure it will. Now get some sleep, and for gods’ sake, come down to breakfast in the morning! Ciri is getting tired of having to track your skinny ass all over the castle.”

“Skinny?!” Jaskier dropped the fur and grabbed his ass, then frowned. “Ugh, it really has gotten skinny. I need to eat more.”

“You’re too thin all over, but if you just start coming to meals, you’ll be fine. I just brought in a boar today,” he coaxed. “You love boar.”

“I do love boar,” Jaskier agreed. He sat on the edge of his bed to pull his boots off. When he was down to his chemise and small clothes, he looked up at Geralt, eyes unusually somber. “Thank you, for getting rid of that curse. And apologizing. I – had _planned_ to wait by Roach and see if you’d gotten your head out of your ass, but I ran into that bitch first. We had words, and then poof! Curse.”

“I thought you would be waiting. I planned what I was going to say the entire way down the mountain, and then you weren’t. I thought maybe you needed more time and I would run into you sooner or later, but I never even heard your name mentioned.”

“I stopped using it pretty quickly. For a lot of very sad, deluded reasons.” A yawn split his face and Geralt pushed him down into the bed.

“Enough for now. Get some rest,” he repeated. He felt slightly ridiculous when he found himself pulling up the blankets, but Jaskier was tired enough to just settle against the pillows and close his eyes. He put out the candles on his way out.

There was an audience waiting for him, all huddled at the end of the hall near the stairs. Geralt raised an eyebrow at his brothers and child.

Eskel huffed. “How is he? Ass,” he added on.

Geralt shrugged. “Improving.” He tilted his head, considering. “Sleeping.”

“So the curse is lifted and he’s okay now?” Ciri demanded.

“The curse is lifted. He still gets flashes, leftovers from being under the curse so long, but they’ll fade in time.”

She broke out in a bright smile. “Oh thank the gods! Maybe now he’ll play something besides lullabies!”

“Perhaps.” Geralt thought about it. “More than likely, actually, but try not to pounce on him too quickly. It might take him a bit to find his footing after all this.”

“Yes, yes, we’ll be careful,” Lambert said impatiently. “We’ll let him eat in peace first. But did you straighten shit out with him?”

“We talked a few things over. He was tired, so not everything, but we covered the most important things.”

“Good. I’d murder a wyvern bare handed for someone new to play cards with. Don’t fuck up again, Geralt.” Ciri laughed as he walked into his room and shut the door.

Aubry just clapped him on the shoulder on his way to his own room.

Geralt tucked Ciri into bed, sitting with her for a few minutes to let her talk herself out. When she finally started yawning, he pulled the blankets up to her chin, much as he’d done for Jaskier, then tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “Will you sleep, without your personal musician?” he asked teasingly.

“I’ll be fine,” she dismissed. “I’m just glad he’s better.”

“As am I. I’m not sure the others are quite prepared for Jaskier when he’s wholly himself, but it should be damned entertaining.” She grinned at him, bright but sleepy, then waved him off.

Eskel was still waiting when he shut her door behind himself. “Ale?” he offered, jerking his head towards the stairs. Geralt shrugged assent. When they were settled in the kitchen with their ale, Eskel kicked his feet up on the edge of the table and gave him a pointed look. “Tell me you got the chance to apologize for being an ass.”

“I did. Finally.”

“So what happened? Who put the curse on him?”

“Yennefer.” Eskel’s eyebrows went up. “I know. She blocked the memory of her doing it, too, so he had no idea he was under a spell.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I don’t know, Eskel. The pair of them never liked each other, always sniping. But to put a curse like this on him? He said he wasn’t far off from taking a long walk on the mountain.”

“Fuck,” Eskel said succinctly.

“Exactly. He’s already asked that I at least wait until the trail is open and he can leave before bringing her here, if I decide to still do that. But how the fuck can I ever trust her?”

Eskel tapped the side of his mug thoughtfully. “If it were me, I wouldn’t. I’m not sure I ever would have, but you had that lovely wish binding you together, clouding your brain. Not to mention your prick.” Geralt couldn’t argue with that. Yennefer was very attractive, and very enthusiastic in bed. “If we all get a vote, my vote is she never learns where Kaer Morhen is.”

“Of course everyone gets a vote. This is your home too. I just don’t know where else to find a teacher for Ciri. She needs more than witcher training and signs, she’s too powerful. And she’s dreamed of Yennefer, already knows her name.”

“She can learn a new name. If she knew what Yennefer did, do you think she’d still _want_ to learn from her?”

“I don’t know. I just don’t fucking know, Eskel.” His fist clenched. “She _hurt_ him, and I want to punch her for it. If I bring her here, he won’t ever come back. He’ll risk his neck wandering around rather than stay or come back here near her, and I can’t say I blame him. I know I’ll never fully trust her again.”

“We’ll talk about it with the others, but I’m betting their answers will be much the same. She’s not welcome here. Ciri…I think it’s only fair that you talk it over with Ciri as well. She deserves to have a say in her future, and before she agrees to learn from Yennefer, she should know what she’s getting. The good and the bad. She _did_ , after all, help defend the egg as well. And she risked her life at Sodden to repel Nilfgaard. She should hear it all.”

Geralt grimaced but nodded. It was a fair point. Not everything that Yennefer had ever done had been selfish or cruel. There was undoubtedly a very great deal more that she had done that he had no clue about. Their time together had been spent mostly fucking, either with each other or each other. It hadn’t left room for swapping stories about their pasts.

Eskel drained his mug and stood up, clapping Geralt on the shoulder. “Try to get some sleep,” he advised. “You won’t settle anything tonight anyway.”

It was as sound a piece of advice as Geralt had ever received, but easier said than done. He sought his own bed but couldn’t quite get to sleep. His thoughts were too busy churning with what ifs and should have dones to let him, so in the end he sat in front of the fire and meditated for a few hours. That was probably a good thing, since it was his turn to cook. Meditating allowed him to rouse before everyone else and get the day’s food started in the kitchen. By the time the others began to stir, he had a giant haunch of boar spitted and slow roasting for dinner, along with eggs and fresh bread with honey ready for breakfast. Ciri was still sleepy eyed as she wandered in with Eskel, with Lambert, Aubry, and Vesemir right behind them. Geralt strained his hearing to its limits, listening for Jaskier, and as everyone finished, started to worry. Jaskier wasn’t a terribly early riser, usually, but he should have been awake by then. He could see Ciri fidgeting and casting little looks towards the door, obviously looking for the missing bard as well. He was torn between seeking him out and giving him space, in case he needed more time on his own to get his thoughts straight, and then heard the shuffling steps.


End file.
